THE  OLD  COAST  EOAD 

From  Boston  to  Plymouth 


THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

From  Boston  to  Plymouth 


BY 

AGNES  EDWARDS 

WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY 
LOUIS    H.    RUYL 


BOSTON   AND    NEW    YORK 
HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

The  Riverside  Press  Cambridge 
192Q 


J  •     .       ,  COPYRIGHT,  1920,  RY  AGNES  EDWARDS  PRATT 

•'     "•        ;              '.     .*  '.  *  ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

..-i*-*.'  '• 


CONTENTS 

BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD  ix 

I.  DORCHESTER  HEIGHTS  AND  THE  OLD  COAST 

ROAD  1 

II.  MILTON  AND  THE  BLUE  HILLS  19 

III.  SHIPBUILDING  AT  QUINCY  35 

IV.  THE  ROMANCE  OF  WEYMOUTH  57 
V.  ECCLESIASTICAL  HINGHAM  75 

VI.  COHASSET  LEDGES  AND  MARSHES  92 

VII.  THE  SCITUATE  SHORE  111 

VIII.  MARSHFIELD,  THE  HOME  OF  DANIEL  WEB- 
STER 123 

IX.  DUXBURY  HOMES  142 

X.  KINGSTON  AND  ITS  MANUSCRIPTS  157 

XI.  PLYMOUTH  175 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

A  BIT  OF  COMMERCIAL  STREET  IN  WEYMOUTH 

Frontispiece 

THE  STATE  HOUSE  FROM  PARK  STREET  ix 

MAP  OF  THE  SOUTH  SHORE                                           facing  1 

DORCHESTER  BAY  1 

OFF  FOR  PLYMOUTH  BY  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD  18 

GREAT  BLUE  HILL  19 

MILTON  ESTATES                                              facing  go 

THE  FORE  RIVER  SHIPYARD  35 

THE  ADAMS  HOUSES  IN  QUINCY  56 

THE  WEYMOUTH  WATER-FRONT  57 

RATTLING  ALONG  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD  74 

THE  LINCOLN  HOUSE  IN  HINGHAM  75 

THE  OLD  SHIP  MEETING-HOUSE                       facing  76 

INTERIOR  OF  THE  NEW  NORTH  CHURCH  IN  HING- 
HAM, WITH  ITS  SLAVE  GALLERIES  91 

COHASSET  LEDGES  AND  MINOT'S  LEDGE  LIGHT  92 

MODERN  COHASSET  110 

DRYING  SEA-MOSS  AT  SCITUATE  HARBOR  111 


viii  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FOURTH  CLIFF,  SCITUATE  122 

THE  WEBSTER  HOUSE  123 

MARSHFIELD  MEADOWS  facing  135 

A  DUXBURY  COTTAGE  142 

A  BAY  VIEW  TO  DUXBURY  BEACH  156 

THE  STANDISH  MONUMENT  AS  SEEN  FROM  KINGS- 
TON 157 

OLD  RECORDS  174 

THE  MEMORIAL  BUILDING  FOR  THE  TOWN  OF 
PLYMOUTH,  DESIGNED  BY  LITTLE  AND  RUSSELL, 
ARCHITECTS  175 

VIEW  FROM  STEPS  OF  BURIAL  HILL,  PLYMOUTH, 
SHOWING  THE  TOWN  SQUARE,  LfiYDEN  STREET, 
THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  PILGRIMAGE,  THE  FIRST 
CHURCH,  AND,  IN  THE  DISTANCE,  THE  PILGRIM 
MONUMENT  IN  PROVINCETOWN  facing  192 

CLARK'S  ISLAND,  PLYMOUTH  203 


BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD 

TO  love  Boston  or  to  laugh  at  Boston  — 
it  all  depends  on  whether  or  not  you  are 
a  Bostonian.  Perhaps  the  happiest  attitude  — 
and  the  most  intelligent  —  is  tinged  with  both 
amusement  and  affection:  amusement  at  the 
undeviating  ceremonial  of  baked  beans  on 
Saturday  night  and  fish  balls  on  Sunday 
morning;  at  the  Boston  bag  (not  so  ubiquitous 
now  as  formerly);  at  the  indefatigable  con- 


x  BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD 

sumption  of  lectures ;  at  the  Bostonese  pronun- 
ciation; affection  for  the  honorable  traditions, 
noble  buildings,  distinguished  men  and  women. 
Boston  is  an  old  city  —  one  must  remember 
that  it  was  settled  almost  three  centuries  ago 
-  and  old  cities,  like  old  people,  become  tena- 
cious of  their  idiosyncrasies,  admitting  their 
inconsistencies  and  prejudices  with  compla- 
cency, wisely  aware  that  age  has  bestowed  on 
them  a  special  value,  which  is  automatically 
increased  with  the  passage  of  time. 

To  tell  the  story  of  an  old  city  is  like  cutting 
down  through  the  various  layers  of  a  fruity 
layer  cake.  When  you  turn  the  slice  over,  you 
see  that  every  piece  is  a  cross-section.  So  al- 
most every  locality  and  phase  of  this  venerable 
metropolis  could  be  studied,  and  really  should 
be  studied,  according  to  its  historical  strata: 
Colonial,  Provincial,  Revolutionary,  economic, 
and  literary.  All  of  these  periods  have  piled  up 
their  associations  one  upon  the  other,  and  all 
of  them  must  be  somewhat  understood  if  one 
would  sincerely  comprehend  what  has  aptly 
been  called  not  a  city,  but  a  "state  of  mind," 


BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD  xi 

It  is  as  impossible  for  the  casual  sojourner 
to  grasp  the  significance  of  the  multifarious 
historical  and  literary  events  which  have 
transpired  here  as  for  a  few  pages  to  outline 
them.  Wherever  one  stands  in  Boston  suggests 
the  church  of  San  Clemente  in  Rome,  where, 
you  remember,  there  are  three  churches  built 
one  upon  the  other.  However,  those  who  would 
take  the  lovely  journey  from  Boston  to  Ply- 
mouth needs  must  make  some  survey,  no 
matter  how  superficial,  of  their  starting-place. 
And  perhaps  the  best  spot  from  which  to  begin 
is  the  Common. 

This  pleasantly  rolling  expanse,  which  was 
set  aside  as  long  ago  as  1640,  with  the  decree 
that  "there  shall  be  no  land  granted  either  for 
houseplott  or  garden  out  of  ye  open  land  or 
common  field,"  has  been  unbrokenly  main- 
tained ever  since,  and  as  far  as  acreage  goes 
(it  approximates  fifty  acres)  could  still  fulfill 
its  original  use  of  pasturing  cows,  a  practice 
which  was  continued  until  1830.  It  was  here 
that  John  Hancock's  cattle  grazed  —  he  who 
lived  in  such  magnificence  on  the  hill,  and  in 


xii          BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD 

whose  side  yard  the  State  House  was  built  - 
and  once,  when  preparations  for  an  official 
banquet  were  halted  by  shortage  of  milk,  tra- 
dition has  it  that  he  ordered  his  servants  to 
hasten  out  on  the  Common  and  milk  every 
cow  there,  regardless  of  ownership.  Tradition 
also  tells  us  that  the  little  boy  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson  tended  his  mother's  cow  here;  and 
finally  both  traditions  and  existing  law  de- 
clare that  yonder  one-story  building  opening 
upon  Mount  Vernon  Street,  and  possessing 
an  oddly  wide  door,  must  forever  keep  that 
door  of  sufficient  width  to  let  the  cows  pass 
through  to  the  Common. 

Let  us  stand  upon  the  steps  of  the  State 
House  and  look  out  over  the  Common.  To  our 
right,  near  the  intersection  of  Boylston  and 
Tremont  Streets,  lies  the  half-forgotten,  al- 
most obliterated  Central  Burying  Ground,  the 
final  resting-place  of  Gilbert  Stuart,  the  famous 
American  painter.  At  the  left  points  the  spire 
of  Park  Street  Church,  notable  not  for  its  age, 
for  it  is  only  a  little  over  a  century  old,  but  for 
its  charming  beauty,  and  by  the  fact  that 


BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD         xiii 

William  Lloyd  Garrison  delivered  his  first 
address  here,  and  here  "America"  was  sung 
in  public  for  the  first  time.  It  was  the  windi- 
ness  of  this  corner  which  was  responsible  for 
Tom  Appleton's  suggestion  (he  was  the 
brother-in-law  of  Longfellow)  that  a  shorn 
lamb  be  tethered  here. 

The  graceful  spire  of  Park  Street  Church 
serves  not  only  as  a  landmark,  but  is  also  a 
most  fitting  terminal  to  a  street  of  many  asso- 
ciations. It  is  on  Park  Street  that  the  pub- 
lishing house  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  (now 
Houghton  Mifflin  Company)  has  had  its  of- 
fices for  forty  years,  and  the  bookstores  and 
the  antique  shops  tucked  quaintly  down  a  few 
steps  below  the  level  of  the  sidewalk  have 
much  of  the  flavor  of  a  bit  of  London. 

Still  standing  on  the  State  House  steps, 
facing  the  Common,  you  are  also  facing  what 
has  been  called  the  noblest  monument  in 
Boston  and  the  most  successfully  placed  one 
in  America.  It  is  Saint-Gaudens's  bronze  relief 
of  Colonel  Robert  G.  Shaw  commanding  his 
colored  regiment,  and  if  you  see  no  other  sculp- 


xiv         BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD 

ture  in  a  city  which  has  its  full  quota  you  must 
see  this  memorial,  spirited  in  execution,  spirit- 
ual in  its  conception  of  a  mighty  moment. 

If  we  had  time  to  linger  we  could  not  do 
better  than  to  follow  Beacon  Street  to  the  left, 
pausing  at  the  Athenaeum,  a  library  of  such 
dignity  and  beauty  that  one  instinctively,  and 
properly,  thinks  of  it  as  an  institution  rather 
than  a  mere  building.  To  enjoy  the  Athenaeum 
one  must  be  a  "proprietor  "  and  own  a  " share," 
which  entitles  one  not  only  to  the  use  of  the 
scholarly  volumes  in  scholarly  seclusion,  but 
also  in  the  afternoon  to  entrance  to  an  alcove 
where  tea  is  served  for  three  pennies.  Perhaps 
here,  as  well  as  any  other  place,  you  may  see  a 
characteristic  assortment  of  what  are  fondly 
called  "Boston  types."  There  is  the  professor 
from  Cambridge,  a  gentleman  with  a  pointed 
beard  and  a  noticeably  cultivated  enunciation; 
one  from  Wellesley  —  this,  a  lady  —  with  that 
keen  and  paradoxically  impractical  expression 
which  marks  pure  intellectuality;  an  alert 
matron,  plainly,  almost  shabbily,  dressed 
(aristocratic  Boston  still  scorns  sartorial  smart- 


BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD          xv 

ness);  a  very  well-bred  young  girl  with  bone 
spectacles;  a  student,  shabby,  like  the  Back 
Bay  matron,  but  for  another  reason;  a  writer; 
a  business  man  whose  hobby  is  Washingtonia. 
These,  all  of  them,  you  may  enjoy  along  with 
your  cup  of  tea  for  three  cents,  if  —  and  here 
is  the  crux  —  you  can  only  be  admitted  in  the 
first  place.  And  if  you  are  admitted,  do  not 
fail  to  look  out  of  the  rear  windows  upon  the 
ancient  Granary  Burying  Ground,  where  rest 
the  ashes  of  Hancock,  Sewall,  Faneuil,  Samuel 
Adams,  Otis,  Revere,  and  many  more  notables. 
If  you  have  a  penchant  for  graveyards,  this 
one,  entered  from  Tremont  Street,  is  more  than 
worthy  of  further  study. 

This  is  one  of  the  many  things  we  could  en- 
joyably  do  if  we  had  time,  but  whether  we 
have  time  or  not  we  must  pay  our  respects  to 
the  State  House  (one  does  not  call  it  the  Cap- 
itol in  Boston,  as  in  other  cities),  the  promi- 
nence of  whose  golden  dome  is  not  unsugges- 
tive,  to  those  who  recall  it,  of  Saint  Botolph's 
beacon  tower  in  Boston,  England,  for  which 
this  city  was  named.  The  State  House  is  a  dis- 


xvi         BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD 

tinctively  American  building,  and  Bulfinch, 
the  great  American  architect,  did  an  excellent 
thing  when  he  designed  it.  The  dome  was  orig- 
inally covered  with  plates  of  copper  rolled  by 
no  other  than  that  expert  silversmith  and 
robust  patriot,  Paul  Revere  —  he  whose  mid- 
night ride  has  been  recited  by  so  many  genera- 
tions of  school-children,  and  whose  exquisite 
flagons,  cups,  ladles,  and  sugar  tongs  not 
only  compared  with  the  best  Continental 
work  of  that  period,  but  have  set  a  name 
and  standard  for  American  craftsmanship  ever 
since. 

If  you  should  walk  up  and  down  the  chess- 
board of  Beacon  Hill  —  taking  the  knight's 
move  occasionally  across  the  narrow  cross- 
streets  —  you  could  not  help  treading  the  very 
squares  which  were  familiar  to  the  feet  of  that 
generation  of  authors  which  has  permanently 
stamped  American  literature.  At  55  Beacon 
Street,  down  near  the  foot  of  the  hill  and  fac- 
ing the  Common,  still  stands  the  handsome, 
swell-front,  buff-brick  house  where  Prescott, 
the  historian,  lived.  On  Mount  Vernon  Street 


BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD         xvii 

(which  runs  parallel  to  Beacon,  and  which, 
with  its  dignified  beauty,  won  the  approval  of 
that  connoisseur  of  beautiful  streets  —  Henry 
James)  one  can  pick  out  successively  the  num- 
bers 59,  76,  83,  84,  the  first  and  last  being 
homes  of  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  and  the 
other  two  distinguished  by  the  residence  of 
William  Ellery  Channing  and  Margaret  De- 
land.  Pinckney  Street  runs  parallel  with  Mount 
Vernon,  and  the  small,  narrow  house  at  num- 
ber 20  was  one  of  the  homes  of  the  Alcott  fam- 
ily. It  seems  delightfully  fitting  that  Louisburg 
Square  —  that  very  exclusive  and  very  Eng- 
lish spot  which  probably  retains  more  of  the 
quaint  atmosphere  and  customs  of  an  aristo- 
cratic past  than  any  other  single  area  in  the 
city  —  should  have  been  the  home  of  the  well- 
beloved  William  Dean  Ho  wells.  One  also  likes 
to  recall  that  Jenny  Lind  was  married  at  num- 
ber 20.  Chestnut  Street  —  which  after  a  period 
of  social  obscurity  is  again  coming  into  its  own 
—  possesses  Julia  Ward  Howe's  house  at  num- 
ber 13,  that  of  Motley  the  historian  at  16,  and 
of  Parkman  at  50.  In  this  hasty  map  we  have 


xviii       BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD 

gone  up  and  down  the  hill,  but  the  cross-street, 
Charles,  although  not  so  attractive,  is  never- 
theless as  rich  in  literary  associations  as  any 
in  Boston.  Here  lived,  for  a  short  time,  at  164, 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  and  at  131  —  also  for 
a  short  time  —  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich.  It  is, 
however,  at  148,  that  we  should  longest  pause. 
This,  for  many  rich  years,  was  the  home  of 
James  T.  Fields,  that  delightful  man  of  letters 
who  was  the  friend  of  many  men  of  letters;  he 
who  entertained  Dickens  and  Thackeray,  and 
practically  every  foreign  writer  of  note  who 
visited  this  country;  he  who  encouraged  Haw- 
thorne to  the  completion  of  the  "Scarlet  Let- 
ter," and  he,  who,  as  an  appreciative  critic, 
publisher,  and  editor,  probably  did  more  to 
elevate,  inspire,  and  sustain  the  general  liter- 
ary tone  of  the  city  than  any  other  single  per- 
son. In  these  stirring  days  facile  American 
genius  springs  up,  like  brush  fires,  from  coast 
to  coast.  Novels  pour  in  from  the  West,  the 
Middle  West,  the  South.  To  superficial  out- 
siders it  may  seem  as  if  Boston  might  be  hard- 
pressed  to  keep  her  laurels  green,  but  Boston 


BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD          xix 

herself  has  no  fears.  Her  present  may  not  shine 
with  so  unique  a  brilliance  as  her  past,  but  her 
past  gains  in  luster  with  each  succeeding  year. 
Nothing  can  ever  take  from  Boston  her  high 
literary  prestige. 

While  we  are  still  on  Beacon  Hill  we  can 
look  out,  not  only  upon  the  past,  but  upon  the 
future.  Those  white  domes  and  pillars  gleam- 
ing like  Greek  temples  across  the  blue  Charles, 
are  the  new  buildings  of  the  Massachusetts 
Institute  of  Technology,  and  surely  Greek 
temples  were  never  lovelier,  nor  dedicated  to 
more  earnest  pursuit  of  things  not  mundane. 
Quite  as  beautiful  and  quite  as  Grecian  as  the 
Technology  buildings  is  the  noble  marble 
group  of  the  School  of  Medicine  of  Harvard 
University,  out  by  the  Fenlands  —  that  sec- 
tion of  the  city  which  is  rapidly  becoming  a 
students'  quarter,  with  its  Simmons  College, 
the  New  England  Conservatory  of  Music,  art 
schools,  gymnasiums,  private  and  technical 
schools  of  all  descriptions,  and  its  body  of  over 
12,000  students.  Harvard  is,  of  course,  across 
the  river  in  Cambridge,  and  preparatory 


xx          BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD 

schools  and  colleges  dot  the  suburbs  in  every 
direction,  upholding  the  cultural  traditions  of 
a  city  which  has  proved  itself  peculiarly  fitted 
to  educational  interests. 

All  this  time  we  have,  like  bona-fide  Bostoni- 
ans,  stayed  on  Beacon  Hill,  and  merely  looked 
out  at  the  rest  of  the  city.  And  perhaps  this  is 
as  typical  a  thing  as  we  could  have  done. 
Beacon  Hill  was  the  center  of  original  Boston, 
when  the  Back  Bay  was  merely  a  marsh,  and 
long  after  the  marsh  was  filled  in  and  streets 
were  laid  out  and  handsome  residences  lined 
them,  Beacon  Hill  looked  down  scornfully  at 
the  new  section  and  murmured  that  it  was 
built  upon  the  discarded  hoopskirts  and  um- 
brellas of  the  true  Bostonians.  Even  when  al- 
most every  one  was  crowded  off  the  Hill  and 
the  Back  Bay  became  the  more  aristocratic 
section  of  the  two,  there  were  still  enough  of 
the  original  inhabitants  left  to  scorn  these 
upstart  social  pretensions.  And  now  Beacon 
Hill  is  again  coming  back  into  her  own:  the 
fine  old  houses  are  being  carefully,  almost  wor- 
shipfully  restored,  probably  never  again  to 


BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD         xxi 

lose  their  rightful  place  in  the  general  life  of 
the  city. 

But  if  Beacon  Hill  was  conservative  in  re- 
gard to  the  Back  Bay,  that  district,  in  its  turn, 
showed  an  equal  unprogressiveness  in  regard 
to  the  Esplanade.  To  the  stranger  in  Boston, 
delighting  in  that  magnificent  walk  along  the 
Charles  River  Embankment,  with  the  arching 
spans  of  the  Cambridge  and  Harvard  bridges 
on  one  side,  and  the  homes  of  wealth  and  mel- 
low refinement  on  the  other  —  a  walk  which 
for  invigorating  beauty  compares  with  any  in 
the  cities  of  men  —  it  seems  incredible  that 
when  this  promenade  was  laid  out  a  few  years 
ago,  the  householders  along  the  water's  edge 
absolutely  refused  to  turn  their  front  windows 
away  from  Beacon  Street.  Furthermore,  they 
ignored  the  fact  that  their  back  yards  and 
back  windows  presented  an  unbecoming  face  to 
such  an  incomparably  lovely  promenade,  and 
the  inevitable  household  rearrangement  —  by 
which  the  drawing-rooms  were  placed  in  the 
rear  —  was  literally  years  in  process  of  achieve- 
ment. But  such  conservatism  is  one  of  Boston's 


xxii         BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD 

idiosyncrasies,  which  we  must  accept  like  the 
wind  and  the  flat  A. 

Present-day  Bostonians  are  proud  —  and 
properly  so  —  of  their  Copley  Square,  with  its 
Public  Library,  rich  with  the  mural  paintings 
of  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  with  Abbey's  "Quest 
of  the  Holy  Grail,"  and  Sargent's  "Frieze  of 
the  Prophets";  with  its  well-loved  Trinity 
Church  and  with  much  excellent  sculpture  by 
Bela  Pratt.  Copley  Square  is  the  cultural  cen- 
ter of  modern  Boston.  The  famous  Lowell  lec- 
tures—  established  about  seventy-five  years 
ago  as  free  gifts  to  the  people  —  are  enthusi- 
astically attended  by  audiences  as  Bostonese 
as  one  could  hope  to  congregate;  and  in  all 
sorts  of  queer  nests  in  this  vicinity  are  Theo- 
sophical  reading-rooms,  small  halls  where 
Buddhism  is  studied  or  New  Thought  taught, 
and  half  a  hundred  very  new  or  very  old 
philosophies,  religions,  fads,  fashions,  reforms, 
and  isms  find  shelter.  It  is  easy  to  linger  in 
Copley  Square:  indeed,  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds of  men  and  women  —  principally  women 
—  come  from  all  over  the  United  States  for  the 


BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD        xxiii 

sole  purpose  of  spending  a  few  months  or  a 
season  in  this  very  place,  enjoying  the  lectures, 
concerts,  and  art  exhibitions  which  are  so 
easily  and  freely  accessible.  But  in  this  bird's- 
eye  flight  across  the  historical  and  geograph- 
ical map  of  a  city  that  tempts  one  to  many 
pleasant  delays,  we  must  hover  for  a  brief  mo- 
ment over  the  South  and  the  North  Ends. 

Skipping  back,  then,  almost  three  centuries, 
but  not  traveling  far  as  distance  goes,  the 
stranger  in  Boston  cannot  do  better  than  to 
find  his  way  from  Copley  Square  to  the  Old 
South  Church  on  Washington  Street  —  that 
venerable  building  whose  desecration  by  the 
British  troops  in  1775  the  citizens  found  it  so 
hard  ever  to  forgive.  It  was  here  that  Benja- 
min Franklin  was  baptized  in  1706;  here  that 
Joseph  Warren  made  a  dramatic  entry  to  the 
pulpit  by  way  of  the  window  in  order  to  de- 
nounce the  British  soldiers ;  and  here  that  mo- 
mentous meetings  were  held  in  the  heaving 
days  before  the  Revolution.  The  Old  South 
Church  Burying  Ground  is  now  called  the 
King's  Chapel  Burying  Ground,  and  King's 


xxiv        BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD 

Chapel  itself  —  a  quaint,  dusky  building,  sug- 
gestive of  a  London  chapel  —  is  only  a  few 
blocks  away.  Across  its  doorsill  have  not  only 
stepped  the  Royal  Governors  of  pre-Revolu- 
tionary  days,  but  Washington,  General  Gage, 
the  indestructibly  romantic  figures  of  Sir  Harry 
Frankland  and  Agnes  Surriage;  the  funeral 
processions  of  General  Warren  and  Charles 
Sumner.  The  organ,  which  came  from  England 
in  1756,  is  said  to  have  been  selected  by  Handel 
at  the  request  of  King  George,  and  along  the 
walls  of  the  original  King's  Chapel  were  hung 
the  escutcheons  of  the  Kings  of  England  and 
of  the  Royal  Governors. 

The  Old  State  House  is  in  this  vicinity  and 
is  worthy  —  as  are,  indeed,  both  the  Old  South 
Church  and  King's  Chapel  —  of  careful  archi- 
tectural study  and  enjoyment.  There  are  por- 
traits, pictures,  relics,  and  rooms  within,  and 
without  the  beautifully  quaint  lines  and  truly 
lovely  details  of  the  fagade  infuse  a  perpetual 
charm  into  the  atmosphere  of  the  city.  It  was 
directly  in  front  of  this  building  that  the  Bos- 
ton Massacre  took  place  in  1770,  and  from 


BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD         xxv 

this  second-story  balcony  that  the  repeal  of 
the  Stamp  Act  was  read,  and  ten  years  later 
the  full  text  of  the  Declaration  of  Independ- 
ence. 

Perhaps  the  next  most  interesting  building 
in  this  section  of  old  Boston  is  Faneuil  Hall, 
the  "Cradle  of  Liberty"  whose  dignified,  old- 
fashioned  proportions  were  not  lost  —  thanks 
to  Bulfinch  —  when  it  was  enlarged.  A  gift  of 
a  public-spirited  citizen,  this  building  has 
served  in  a  double  capacity  for  a  hundred  and 
seventy-seven  years,  having  public  market- 
stalls  below  and  a  large  hall  above  —  a  hall 
which  is  never  rented,  but  used  freely  by  the 
people  whenever  they  wish  to  discuss  public 
affairs.  It  would  be  impossible  to  enumerate 
the  notable  speakers  and  meetings  which  have 
rendered  this  hall  famous,  from  General  Gage 
down  to  Daniel  Webster,  Theodore  Roosevelt, 
and  Marshal  Joffre. 

If  you  are  fond  of  water  sights  and  smells 
you  can  step  from  Faneuil  Hall  down  to  a 
region  permeated  with  the  flavor  of  salt  and 
the  sound  of  shipping,  a  region  of  both  ancient 


xxvi       BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD 

tradition  and  present  activity.  Here  is  India 
Wharf,  its  seven-story  yellow-brick  building 
once  so  tremendously  significant  of  Boston's 
shipping  prosperity;  Long  Wharf,  so  named 
because  when  it  was  built  it  was  the  longest  in 
the  country,  and  bore  a  battery  at  its  end; 
Central  Wharf,  with  its  row  of  venerable  stone 
warehouses;  T  Wharf,  immensely  picturesque 
with  its  congestion  of  craft  of  all  descriptions; 
Commercial  Wharf,  where  full-rigged  sailing 
vessels  which  traded  with  China  and  India  and 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  were  wont  to  anchor 
a  hundred  years  ago.  All  this  region  is  crammed 
with  the  paraphernalia  of  a  typical  water- 
front: curious  little  shops  where  sailors'  sup- 
plies are  sold;  airy  lofts  where  sails  are  cut  and 
stitched  and  repaired;  fish  stores  of  all  descrip- 
tions; sailors'  haunts,  awaiting  the  pen  of  an 
American  Thomas  Burke.  The  old  Custom 
House  where  Hawthorne  unwillingly  plodded 
through  his  enforced  routine  is  here,  and  near 
it  the  new  Custom  House  rears  its  tower  four 
hundred  and  ninety-eight  feet  above  the  side- 
walk, a  beacon  from  both  land  and  sea. 


BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD       xxvii 

The  North  End  of  Boston  has  not  fared  as 
well  as  the  South  End.  The  sons  of  Abraham 
and  immigrants  from  Italy  have  appropriated 
the  streets,  dwellings,  churches,  and  shops 
of  the  entire  region,  and  even  Christ  Church 
(the  famous  Old  North  Church)  has  a  Chiesa 
Italiana  on  its  grounds.  There  are  many 
touches  to  stir  the  memory  in  this  Old  North 
Church.  The  chime  of  eight  bells  naively  stat- 
ing, "We  are  the  first  ring  of  bells  cast  for  the 
British  Empire  in  North  America";  the  pew 
with  the  inscription  that  is  set  apart  for  the 
use  of  the  "Gentlemen  of  Bay  of  Honduras" 
—  visiting  merchants  who  contributed  the 
spire  to  the  church  in  1740;  vaults  beneath  the 
church,  forbidden  now  to  visitors,  where  lie 
the  bones  of  many  Revolutionary  heroes;  a 
unique  collection  of  vellum-covered  books, 
and  a  few  highly  precious  pieces  of  ancient 
furniture.  The  most  conspicuous  item  about 
the  church,  of  course,  is  that  from  its  tower 
were  hung  the  signal  lanterns  of  Paul  Revere, 
destined  to  shine  imperishably  down  the  ever- 
lengthening  aisles  of  American  history. 


xxviii      BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD 

Before  we  press  on  to  Bunker  Hill  —  for 
that  is  our  final  destination  —  we  should  cast 
a  glance  at  Copp's  Hill  Burying  Ground,  that 
hillside  refuge  where  one  can  turn  either  back 
to  the  annals  of  the  past  or  look  out  over  the 
roof-tops  and  narrow  streets  to  the  present  and 
the  future.  If  you  chose  the  latter,  you  can  see 
easily  Boston  Harbor  and  Charlestown  Navy 
Yard  —  that  navy  yard  which  has  outstripped 
even  its  spectacular  traditions  by  its  stirring 
achievements  in  the  Great  War.  "Old  Iron- 
sides" will  lie  here  forever  in  the  well-earned 
serenity  of  a  secure  old  age,  and  it  is  probable 
that  another  visitor,  the  Kronprinzessin  Cecilie, 
although  lost  under  the  name  of  the  Mount 
Vernon  and  a  coat  of  gray  paint,  will  be  long 
preserved  in  maritime  memory. 

The  plain  shaft  of  Bunker  Hill  Monument, 
standing  to  mark  the  spot  where  the  Americans 
lost  a  battle  that  was,  in  reality,  a  victory,  is 
like  a  blank  mirror,  reflecting  only  that  which 
one  presents  to  it.  According  to  your  historical 
knowledge  and  your  emotional  grasp  Bunker 
Hill  Monument  is  significant. 


BOSTON:  A  FOREWORD        xxix 

Skimming  thus  over  the  many-storied  city, 
in  a  sort  of  literary  airplane,  it  has  been  pos- 
sible to  point  out  only  a  few  of  the  most  con- 
spicuous places  and  towers.  The  Common  lies 
like  a  tiny  pocket  handkerchief  of  path- 
marked  green  at  the  foot  of  crowded  Beacon 
Hill;  the  white  Esplanade  curves  beside  the 
blue  Charles;  the  Back  Bay  is  only  a  checker- 
board of  streets,  alphabetically  arranged; 
Copley  Square  is  hardly  distinguishable.  The 
spires  of  the  Old  South  Church,  King's  Chapel, 
the  Old  State  House,  and  Faneuil  Hall  punctu- 
ate the  South  End;  the  North  Church,  the 
North  End.  The  new  Custom  House  Tower 
and  Bunker  Hill  Monument  seem  hardly  more 
than  the  minarets  of  a  child's  toy  village. 

The  writer,  as  a  pilot  over  this  particular 
city,  alights  and  resigns,  commending  for  more 
detailed  study,  and  for  delightful  guidance, 
Robert  Shackleton's  "Book  of  Boston."  Let 
us  now  leave  the  city  and  set  out  in  a  more 
leisurely  fashion  on  our  way  to  Plymouth. 


THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

From  Boston  to  Plymouth 


MARSH  FIELD  C£ 

MARSHFIEL 

GREEM    HARB 

DUXBURY 


PLYMOU 


THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 


CHAPTER  I 

DORCHESTER  HEIGHTS  AND  THE  OLD 
COAST  ROAD 

THE  very  earliest  of  the  great  roads  in 
New  England  was  the  Old  Coast  Road, 
connecting  Boston  with  Plymouth  —  capitals 
of  separate  colonies.  Do  we,  casually  accept- 
ing the  fruit  of  three  hundred  years  of  toil 
on  this  continent  —  do  we,  accustomed  to 
smooth  highways  and  swift  and  easy  trans- 
portation, realize  the  significance  of  such  a 
road? 

A  road  is  the  symbol  of  the  civilization 
which  has  produced  it.  The  main  passageway 


2  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

from  the  shore  of  the  Yellow  Sea  to  the  capital 
of  Korea,  although  it  has  been  pressed  for 
centuries  immemorial  by  myriads  of  human 
feet,  has  never  been  more  than  a  bridle  path. 
On  the  other  hand,  wherever  the  great  Roman 
Empire  stepped,  it  engineered  mighty  thor- 
oughfares which  are  a  marvel  to  this  day.  A 
road  is  the  thread  on  which  the  beads  of  his- 
tory are  strung;  the  beads  of  peace  as  well  as 
those  of  war.  Thrilling  as  is  the  progress  of 
aerial  navigation,  with  its  infinite  possibilities 
of  human  intercourse,  yet  surely,  when  the 
entire  history  of  man  is  unrolled,  the  moment 
of  the  conception  of  building  a  wide  and  per- 
manent road,  instead  of  merely  using  a  trail, 
will  rank  as  equally  dramatic.  The  first  stone 
laid  by  the  first  Roman  (they  to  whom  the 
idea  of  road-building  was  original)  will  be 
recognized  as  significant  as  the  quiver  of  the 
wings  of  the  first  airplane. 

Let  us  follow  the  old  road  from  Boston  to 
Plymouth:  follow  it,  not  with  undue  exacti- 
tude, and  rather  too  hastily,  as  is  the  modern 
way,  but  comfortably,  as  is  also  the  modern 


DORCHESTER  HEIGHTS  3 

way,  picking  up  what  bits  of  quaint  lore  and 
half -forgotten  history  we  most  easily  may. 

I  think  that  as  we  start  down  this  historic 
highway,  we  shall  encounter  —  if  our  mood 
be  the  proper  one  in  which  to  undertake  such 
a  journey  —  a  curious  procession  coming  down 
the  years  to  meet  us.  We  shall  not  call  them 
ghosts,  for  they  are  not  phantoms  severed  from 
earth,  but,  rather,  the  permanent  possessors 
of  the  highway  which  they  helped  create. 

We  shall  meet  the  Indian  first,  running 
lightly  on  straight,  moccasined  feet,  along  the 
trail  from  which  he  has  burned,  from  time  to 
time,  the  underbrush.  He  does  not  go  by  land 
when  he  can  go  by  water,  but  in  this  case  there 
are  both  land  and  water  to  meet,  for  many  are 
the  streams,  and  they  are  unbridged  as  yet. 
With  rhythmic  lope,  more  beautiful  than  the 
stride  of  any  civilized  limbs,  and  with  a  sure 
divination  of  the  best  route,  he  chooses  the 
trail  which  will  ultimately  be  the  highway  of 
the  vast  army  of  pale-faces.  Speed  on,  O  soli- 
tary Indian  —  to  vanish  down  the  narrow 
trail  of  your  treading  as  you  are  destined,  in 


4  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

time,  to  vanish  forever  from  the  vision  of 
New  England !  .  .  .  Behind  the  red  runner  plod 
two  stern-faced  Pilgrims,  pushing  their  way 
up  from  Plymouth  toward  the  newer  settle- 
ment at  Massachusetts  Bay.  They  come  slowly 
and  laboriously  on  foot,  their  guns  cocked, 
eyes  and  ears  alert,  wading  the  streams  with- 
out complaint  or  comment.  They  keep  to- 
gether, for  no  one  is  allowed  to  travel  over 
this  Old  Coast  Road  single,  "nor  without 
some  arms,  though  two  or  three  together." 
The  path  they  take  follows  almost  exactly  the 
trail  of  the  Indian,  seeking  the  fords,  avoiding 
the  morasses,  clinging  to  the  uplands,  and 
skirting  the  rough,  wooded  heights.  .  .  .  After 
them  —  almost  a  decade  after  —  we  see  a 
man  on  horseback,  with  his  wife  on  a  pillion 
behind  him.  They  carry  their  own  provisions 
and  those  for  the  beast,  now  and  then  dis- 
mounting to  lead  the  horse  over  difficult 
ground,  and  now  and  then  blazing  a  tree  to 
help  them  in  their  return  journey  —  mute 
testimony  to  the  cruder  senses  of  the  white 
man  to  whom  woodcraft  never  becomes  in- 


DORCHESTER  HEIGHTS  5 

stinctive.  The  fact  that  this  couple  possesses 
a  horse  presages  great  changes  in  New  Eng- 
land. Ferries  will  be  established;  tolls  levied, 
bridges  thrown  across  the  streams  which  now 
the  horses  swim,  or  cross  by  having  their 
front  feet  in  one  canoe  ferry  and  their  hind 
feet  in  another  —  the  canoes  being  lashed  to- 
gether. As  yet  we  see  no  vehicle  of  any  kind, 
except  an  occasional  sedan  chair.  (The  first 
one  of  these  of  which  we  have  knowledge  was 
presented  to  Governor  Winthrop  as  a  portion 
of  a  capture  from  a  Spanish  galleon.)  How- 
ever, these  are  not  common.  In  1631  Governor 
Endicott  of  Salem  wrote  that  he  could  not  get 
to  Boston  to  visit  Governor  Winthrop  as  he 
was  not  well  enough  to  wade  the  streams.  The 
next  year  we  read  of  Governor  Winthrop  sur- 
mounting the  difficulty  when  he  goes  to  visit 
Governor  Bradford,  by  being  carried  on  the 
backs  of  Indians  across  the  fords.  (It  took  him 
two  days  to  make  the  journey.) 

It  is  not  strange  that  we  see  no  wheeled 
vehicles.  In  1672  there  were  only  six  stage- 
coaches in  the  whole  of  Great  Britain,  and 


6  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

they  were  the  occasion  of  a  pamphlet  protest- 
ing that  they  encouraged  too  much  travel!  At 
this  time  Boston  had  one  private  coach.  Al- 
though one  swallow  may  not  make  a  summer, 
one  stage-coach  marks  the  beginning  of  a  new 
era.  The  age  of  walking  and  horseback  riding 
approaches  its  end;  gates  and  bars  disappear, 
the  crooked  farm  lanes  are  gradually  straight- 
ened; and  in  come  a  motley  procession  of 
chaises,  sulkies,  and  two-wheeled  carts  —  two- 
wheeled  carts,  not  four.  There  are  sleds  and 
sleighs  for  winter,  but  the  four-wheeled  wagon 
was  little  used  in  New  England  until  the  turn 
of  the  century.  And  then  they  were  emphati- 
cally objected  to  because  of  the  wear  and  tear 
on  the  roads!  In  1669  Boston  enacted  that  all 
carts  "within  ye  necke  of  Boston  shall  be  and 
goe  without  shod  wheels."  This  provision  is 
entirely  comprehensible,  when  we  remember 
that  there  was  no  idea  of  systematic  road  re- 
pair. No  tax  was  imposed  for  keeping  the  roads 
in  order,  and  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year 
every  able-bodied  man  labored  on  the  high- 
ways, bringing  his  own  oxen,  cart,  and  tools. 


DORCHESTER  HEIGHTS  7 

But  as  the  Old  Coast  Road,  which  was  made 
a  public  highway  in  1639,  becomes  a  genuine 
turnpike  —  so  chartered  in  1803  —  the  good 
old  coaching  days  are  ushered  in  with  the 
sound  of  a  horn,  and  handsome  equipages  with 
well-groomed,  well-harnessed  horses  ply  swiftly 
back  and  forth.  Genial  inns,  with  swinging 
pictorial  signboards  (for  many  a  traveler  can- 
not read),  spring  up  along  the  way,  and  the 
post  is  installed. 

But  even  with  fair  roads  and  regular  coach- 
ing service,  New  England,  separated  by  her 
fixed  topographical  outlines,  remains  pro- 
vincial. It  is  not  until  the  coming  of  the  rail- 
road, in  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
that  the  hills  are  overcome,  and  she  ceases  to 
be  an  exclusively  coastwise  community  and 
becomes  an  integral  factor  in  the  economic 
development  of  the  whole  United  States. 

Thus,  then,  from  a  thin  thread  of  a  trail 
barely  wide  enough  for  one  moccasined  foot 
to  step  before  the  other,  to  a  broad,  leveled 
thoroughfare,  so  wide  that  three  or  even  four 
Automobiles  may  ride  abreast,  and  so  clean 


8  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

that  at  the  end  of  an  all-day's  journey  one's 
faee  is  hardly  dusty,  does  the  history  of  the 
Old  Coast  Road  unroll  itself.  We  who  con- 
template making  the  trip  ensconced  in  the  up- 
holstered comfort  of  a  machine  rolling  on  air- 
filled  tires,  will,  perhaps,  be  less  petulant  of 
some  strip  of  roughened  macadam,  less  be- 
wildered by  the  characteristic  windings,  if  we 
recall  something  of  the  first  back-breaking 
cart  that  —  not  so  very  long  ago  —  crashed 
over  the  stony  road,  and  toilsomely  worked  its 
way  from  devious  lane  to  lane. 

Before  we  start  down  the  Old  Coast  Road 
it  may  be  enlightening  to  get  a  bird's-eye 
glimpse  of  it  actually  as  we  have  historically, 
and  for  such  a  glimpse  there  is  no  better  place 
than  on  the,  topmost  balcony  of  the  Soldier's 
Monument  on  Dorchester  Heights.  The  trip 
to  Dorchester  Heights,  in  South  Boston,  is, 
through  whatever  environs  one  approaches  it, 
far  from  attractive.  This  section  of  the  city, 
endowed  with  extraordinary  natural  beauty 
and  advantage  of  both  land  and  water,  and 
irrevocably  and  brilliantly  graven  upon  the 


DORCHESTER  HEIGHTS  9 

annals  of  American  history,  has  been  allowed 
to  lose  its  ancient  prestige  and  to  sink  low  in- 
deed in  the  social  scale. 

Nevertheless  it  is  to  Dorchester  Heights 
that  we,  as  travelers  down  the  Old  Coast 
Road,  and  as  skimmers  over  the  quickly  turn- 
ing pages  of  our  early  New  England  history, 
must  go,  and  having  once  arrived  at  that 
lovely  green  eminence,  whitely  pointed  with  a 
marble  shaft  of  quite  unusual  excellence,  we 
must  grieve  once  more  that  this  truly  glorious 
spot,  with  its  unparalleled  view  far  down  the 
many-islanded  harbor  to  the  east  and  far  over 
the  famous  city  to  the  west,  is  not  more  fre- 
quented, more  enjoyed,  more  honored. 

If  you  find  your  way  up  the  hill,  into  the 
monument,  and  up  the  stairs  out  to  the  bal- 
cony, probably  you  will  encounter  no  other 
tourist.  Only  when  you  reach  the  top  and 
emerge  into  the  blue  upper  air  you  will  meet 
those  friendly  winged  visitors  who  frequent  all 
spires  —  Saint  Mark's  in  Venice  or  the  Sol- 
dier's Monument  in  South  Boston  —  the  pi- 
geons! Yes,  the  pigeons  have  discovered  the 


10  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

charm  of  this  lofty  loveliness,  and  whenever 
the  caretaker  turns  away  his  vigilant  eye,  they 
haste  to  build  their  nests  on  balcony  or  stair. 
They  alone  of  Boston's  residents  enjoy  to  the 
full  that  of  which  too  many  Bostonians  ignore 
the  existence.  Will  you  read  the  inscriptions 
first  and  recall  the  events  which  have  raised 
this  special  hill  to  an  historic  eminence  equal 
to  its  topographical  one?  Or  will  you  look  out 
first,  on  all  sides  and  see  the  harbor,  the  city 
and  country  as  it  is  to-day?  Both  surveys 
will  be  brief;  perhaps  we  will  begin  with  the 
latter. 

Before  us,  to  the  wide  east,  lies  Boston  Har- 
bor, decked  with  islands  so  various,  so  fasci- 
nating in  contour  and  legend,  that  more  than 
one  volume  has  been  written  about  them  and 
not  yet  an  adequate  one.  From  the  point  of 
view  of  history  these  islands  are  pulsating  with 
life.  From  Castle  Island  (on  the  left)  which  was 
selected  as  far  back  as  1634  to  be  a  bulwark  of 
the  port,  and  which,  with  its  Fort  Independ- 
ence, was  where  many  of  our  Civil  War  sol- 
diers received  their  training,  to  the  outline  of 


DORCHESTER  HEIGHTS          11 

Squantum  (on  the  right),  where  in  October, 
1917,  there  lay  a  marsh,  and  where,  ten  months 
later,  the  destroyer  Delphy  was  launched  from 
a  shipyard  that  was  a  miracle  of  modern  en- 
gineering —  every  mile  of  visible  land  is  in- 
stinct with  war-time  associations. 

But  history  is  more  than  battles  and  forts 
and  the  paraphernalia  of  war;  history  is  eco- 
nomic development  as  well.  And  from  this 
same  balcony  we  can  pick  out  Thompson's, 
Rainsford,  and  Deer  Island,  set  aside  for  huge 
corrective  institutions  —  a  graphic  example  of 
a  nation's  progress  in  its  treatment  of  the 
wayward  and  the  weak. 

But  if  history  is  more  than  wars,  it  is  also 
more  than  institutions.  If  it  is  the  record  of 
man's  daily  life,  the  pleasures  he  works  for, 
then  again  we  are  standing  in  an  unparalleled 
spot  to  look  down  upon  its  present-day  mani- 
festations. From  City  Point  with  its  Aquarium, 
from  the  Marine  Park  with  its  long  pleasure 
pier,  to  Nantasket  with  its  flawless  beach,  this 
is  the  summer  playground  of  unnumbered 
hosts.  Boaters,  bathers,  picnickers  —  all  find 


12  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

their  way  here,  where  not  only  the  cool  breezes 
sweep  their  city-heated  cheeks,  but  the  for- 
ever bewitching  passage  of  vessels  in  and  out, 
furnishes  endless  entertainment.  They  know 
well,  these  laughing  pleasure-seekers,  crowding 
the  piers  and  boats  and  wharves  and  beaches, 
where  to  come  for  refreshment,  and  now  and 
then,  in  the  history  of  the  harbor,  a  solitary 
individual  has  taken  advantage  of  the  roman- 
tic charm  which  is  the  unique  heritage  of  every 
island,  and  has  built  his  home  and  lived,  at 
least  some  portion  of  his  days,  upon  one. 

Apple  Island,  that  most  perfectly  shaped 
little  fleck  of  land  of  ten  acres,  was  the  home 
of  a  Mr.  March,  an  Englishman  who  settled 
there  with  his  family,  and  lived  there  happily 
until  his  death,  being  buried  at  last  upon  its 
western  slope.  The  fine  old  elms  which  adorned 
it  are  gone  now,  as  have  the  fine  old  associa- 
tions. No  one  followed  Mr.  March's  example, 
and  Apple  Island  is  now  merely  another  ex- 
cursion point. 

On  Calf  Island,  another  ten-acre  fragment, 
one  of  America's  popular  actresses,  Julia  Ar- 


DORCHESTER  HEIGHTS          13 

thur,  has  her  home.  Thus,  here  and  there,  one 
stumbles  upon  individuals  or  small  commu- 
nities who  have  chosen  to  live  out  in  the  har- 
bor. But  one  cannot  help  wondering  how  such 
beauty  spots  have  escaped  being  more  loved 
and  lived  upon  by  men  and  women  who  rec- 
ognize the  romantic  lure  which  only  an  island 
can  possess. 

Of  course  the  advantage  of  these  positions 
has  been  utilized,  if  not  for  dwellings.  Govern- 
ment buildings,  warehouses,  and  the  great  sew- 
age plant  all  find  convenient  foothold  here. 
The  excursionists  have  ferreted  out  whatever 
beaches  and  groves  there  may  be.  One  need 
not  regret  that  the  harbor  is  not  appreciated, 
but  only  that  it  has  not  been  developed  along 
aesthetic  as  well  as  useful  lines. 

We  have  been  looking  at  the  east,  which  is 
the  harbor  view.  If  we  look  to  the  west  we  see 
the  city  of  Boston :  the  white  tower  of  the  Cus- 
tom House;  the  gold  dome  of  the  State  House; 
the  sheds  of  the  great  South  Station;  the  blue 
line  of  the  Charles  River.  Here  is  the  place  to 
come  if  one  would  see  a  living  map  of  the  city 


14  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

and  its  environs.  Standing  here  we  realize  how 
truly  Boston  is  a  maritime  city,  and  standing 
here  we  also  realize  how  it  is  that  Dorchester 
Heights  won  its  fame. 

It  was  in  the  winter  of  1776,  when  the  Brit- 
ish, under  Lord  Howe,  were  occupying  Boston, 
and  had  fortified  every  place  which  seemed  im- 
portant. By  some  curious  oversight  —  which 
seems  incredible  to  us  as  we  actually  stand 
upon  the  top  of  this  conspicuous  hill  —  they 
forgot  this  spot. 

When  Washington  saw  what  they  had  not 
seen  —  how  this  unique  position  commanded 
both  the  city  and  the  harbor  —  he  knew  that 
his  opportunity  had  come.  He  had  no  ade- 
quate cannon  or  siege  guns,  and  the  story 
of  how  Henry  Knox  —  afterward  General 
Knox  —  obtained  these  from  Ticonderoga  and 
brought  them  on,  in  the  face  of  terrific  diffi- 
culties of  weather  and  terrain,  is  one  that  for 
bravery  and  brains  will  never  fail  to  thrill.  On 
the  night  of  March  4,  the  Americans,  keeping 
up  a  cannonading  to  throw  the  British  off 
guard,  and  to  cover  up  the  souiid  of  the  moy- 


DORCHESTER  HEIGHTS          15 

ing,  managed  to  get  two  thousand  Continental 
troops  and  four  hundred  carts  of  fascines  and 
intrenching  tools  up  on  the  hill.  That  same 
night,  with  the  aid  of  the  moonlight,  they 
threw  up  two  redoubts  —  performing  a  task, 
which,  as  Lord  Howe  exclaimed  in  dismay  the 
following  morning,  was  "more  in  one  night 
than  my  whole  army  could  have  done  in  a 
month." 

The  occupation  of  the  heights  was  a  mag- 
nificent coup.  The  moment  the  British  saw 
what  had  been  done,  they  realized  that  they 
had  lost  the  fight.  However,  Lord  Percy  hur- 
ried to  make  an  attack,  but  the  weather  made 
it  impossible,  and  by  the  time  the  weather 
cleared  the  Americans  were  so  strongly  in- 
trenched that  it  was  futile  to  attack.  Washing- 
ton, although  having  been  granted  permission 
by  Congress  to  attack  Boston,  wished  to  save 
the  loyal  city  if  possible.  Therefore,  he  and 
Howe  made  an  agreement  by  which  Howe  was 
to  evacuate  and  Washington  was  to  refrain 
from  using  his  guns.  After  almost  two  weeks  of 
preparation  for  departure,  on  March  17  the 


16  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

British  fleet,  as  the  gilded  letters  on  the  white 
marble  panel  tell  us,  in  the  words  of  Charles 
W.  Eliot: 

Carrying  11,000  effective  men 

And  1000  refugees 

Dropped  down  to  Nantasket  Roads 

And  thenceforth 

Boston  was  free 

A  strong  British  force 

Had  been  expelled 
From  one  of  the  United  American  colonies 

The  white  marble  panel,  with  its  gold  letters 
and  the  other  inscriptions  on  the  hill,  tell  the 
whole  story  to  whoever  cares  to  read,  only 
omitting  to  mention  that  the  thousand  self- 
condemned  Boston  refugees  who  sailed  away 
with  the  British  fleet  were  bound  for  Halifax, 
and  that  that  was  the  beginning  of  the  oppro- 
brious term:  "  Go  to  Halifax." 

That  the  battle  was  won  without  bloodshed 
in  no  way  minimizes  the  verdict  of  history  that 
"no  single  event  had  a  greater  general  effect 
on  the  course  of  the  war  than  the  expulsion  of 
the  British  from  the  New  England  capital." 
And  surely  this  same  verdict  justifies  the  per- 


DORCHESTER  HEIGHTS          17 

petual  distinction  of  this  unique  and  beautiful 
hill. 

This,  then,  is  the  story  of  Dorchester  Heights 
—  a  story  whose  glory  will  wax  rather  than 
wane  in  the  years,  and  centuries,  to  come.  Let 
us  be  glad  that  out  of  the  reek  of  the  mod- 
ern city  congestion  this  green  hill  has  been 
preserved  and  this  white  marble  monument 
erected.  Perhaps  you  see  it  now  with  differ- 
ent, more  sympathetic  eyes  than  when  you  first 
looked  out  from  the  balcony  platform.  Before 
us  lies  the  water  with  its  multifarious  islands, 
bays,  promontories,  and  coves,  some  of  which 
we  shall  now  explore.  Behind  us  lies  the  city 
which  we  shall  now  leave.  The  Old  Coast  Road 
-  the  oldest  in  New  England  —  winds  from 
Boston  to  Plymouth,  along  yonder  southern 
horizon.  More  history  than  one  person  can 
pleasantly  relate,  or  one  can  comfortably  lis- 
ten to,  lies  packed  along  this  ancient  turnpike : 
incidents  closer  set  than  the  tombs  along  the 
Appian  Way.  We  will  not  try  to  hear  them 
all.  Neither  will  we  follow  the  original  road  too 
closely,  for  we  seek  the  beautiful  pleasure  drive 


18  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

of  to-day  more  than  the  historic  highway  of 
long  ago. 

Boston  was  made  the  capital  of  the  Massa- 
chusetts Bay  Colony  in  1632.  Plymouth  was  a 
capital  a  decade  before.  It  is  to  Plymouth  that 
we  now  set  out. 


CHAPTER  II 

MILTON  AND  THE  BLUE  HILLS 

MILTON  —  a  town  of  dignity  and  dis- 
tinction !  A  town  of  enterprise  and  char- 
acter! Ever  since  the  first  water-power  mill  in 
this  country;  the  first  powder  mill  in  this  coun- 
try; the  first  chocolate  mill  in  this  country,  and 
thus  through  a  whole  line  of  "first"  things  — 
the  first  violoncello,  the  first  pianoforte,  the 
first  artificial  spring  leg,  and  the  first  railroad 
to  see  the  light  of  day  saw  it  in  this  grand  old 
town  —  the  name  of  Milton  has  been  synony- 
mous with  initiative  and  men  and  women  of 
character. 

Few  people  to-day  think  of  Milton  in  terms 
of  industrial  repute,  but,  rather,  as  a  place  of  es- 
tates, too  aristocratic  to  be  fashionable,  of  his- 
toric houses?  and  of  charming  walks  and  drives 


20  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

and  views.  Many  of  the  old  families  who  have 
given  the  town  its  prestige  still  live  in  their 
ancestral  manors,  and  many  of  the  families 
who  have  moved  there  in  recent  years  are  of 
such  sort  as  will  heighten  the  fame  of  the  fa- 
mous town.  As  the  stranger  passes  through 
Milton  he  is  captivated  by  glimpses  of  ancient 
homesteads,  settling  behind  their  white  Colo- 
nial fences  topped  with  white  Colonial  urns, 
half  hidden  by  their  antique  trees  with  an  air 
of  comfortable  ease;  of  new  houses,  elegant  and 
yet  informal;  of  cottages  with  low  roofs;  of 
well-bred  children  playing  on  the  wide,  green 
lawns  under  the  supervision  of  white-uniformed 
nurses;  of  old  hedges,  old  walls,  old  trees;  new 
roads,  old  drives,  new  gardens,  and  old  gar- 
dens—  everything  well  placed,  well  tended, 
everything  presenting  that  indescribable  at- 
mosphere of  well-established  prosperity  that 
scorns  show;  of  breeding  that  neither  parades 
nor  conceals  its  quality.  Yes  —  this  is  Milton ; 
this  is  modern  Milton.  Boston  society  receives 
some  of  its  most  prominent  contributions  from 
this  patrician  source.  But  modern  Milton  is 


MILTON  AND  THE  BLUE  HILLS    21 

something  more  than  this,  as  old  Milton  was 
something  more  than  this. 

For  Milton,  from  this  day  of  its  birth,  and 
countless  centuries  before  its  birth  as  a  town, 
has  lived  under  the  lofty  domination  of  the 
Blue  Hills,  that  range  of  diaphanous  and  yet 
intense  blue,  that  swims  forever  against  the 
sky,  that  marches  forever  around  the  horizon. 
The  rounded  summits  of  the  Blue  Hills,  to 
which  the  eye  is  irresistibly  attracted  before 
entering  the  town  which  principally  claims 
them,  are  the  worn-down  stumps  of  ancient 
mountains,  and  although  so  leveled  by  the  proc- 
ess of  the  ages,  they  are  still  the  highest  land 
near  the  coast  from  Maine  to  Mexico.  These 
eighteen  or  twenty  skyey  crests  form  the  south- 
ern boundary  of  the  so-called  Boston  Basin, 
and  are  the  most  prominent  feature  of  the 
southern  coast.  From  them  the  Massachuset 
tribe  about  the  Bay  derived  its  name,  signify- 
ing "Near  the  Great  Hills,"  which  name  was 
changed  by  the  English  to  Massachusetts,  and 
applied  to  both  bay  and  colony.  Although  its 
Indian  name  has  been  taken  from  this  lovely 


22  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

range,  the  loveliness  remains.  All  the  surround- 
ing country  shimmers  under  the  mysterious 
bloom  of  these  heights,  so  vast  that  everything 
else  is  dwarfed  beside  them,  and  yet  so  curi- 
ously airy  that  they  seem  to  perpetually  ripple 
against  the  sky.  The  Great  Blue  Hill,  especially 
—  the  one  which  bears  an  observatory  on  its 
summit  —  swims  above  one's  head.  It  seems 
to  have  a  singular  way  of  moving  from  point 
to  point  as  one  motors,  and  although  one  may 
be  forced  to  admit  that  this  may  be  due  more 
to  the  winding  roads  than  to  the  illusiveness  of 
the  hill,  still  the  buoyant  effect  is  the  same. 

Ruskin  declares  somewhere,  with  his  quaint 
and  characteristic  mixture  of  positiveness  and 
idealism,  that  "inhabitants  of  granite  coun- 
tries have  a  force  and  healthiness  of  character 
about  them  that  clearly  distinguishes  them 
from  the  inhabitants  of  less  pure  districts." 
Perhaps  he  was  right,  for  surely  here  where  the 
succeeding  generations  have  all  lived  in  the 
atmosphere  of  the  marching  Blue  Hill,  each  has 
through  its  own  fair  name,  done  honor  to  the 
fair  names  which  have  preceded  it. 


MILTON  AND  THE  BLUE  HILLS    23 

One  of  the  very  first  to  be  attracted  by  the 
lofty  and  yet  lovely  appeal  of  this  region  was 
Governor  Thomas  Hutchinson,  the  last  of  the 
Royal  Governors  Massachusetts  was  to  know. 
It  was  about  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth 
century  that  this  gentleman,  of  whom  John 
Adams  wrote,  "  He  had  been  admired,  revered, 
and  almost  adored,"  chose  as  the  spot  for 
his  house  the  height  above  the  Neponset 
River.  If  we  follow  the  old  country  Heigh  Waye 
to  the  top  of  Unquity  (now  Milton)  Hill, 
we  will  find  the  place  he  chose,  although  the 
house  he  built  has  gone  and  another  stands  in 
its  place.  Fairly  near  the  road,  it  overlooked 
a  rolling  green  meadow  (a  meadow  which,  by 
the  gift  of  John  Murray  Forbes,  will  always  be 
kept  open),  with  a  flat  green  marsh  at  its  feet 
and  the  wide  flat  twist  of  the  Neponset  River 
winding  through  it,  for  all  the  world  like  a  deco- 
rative panel  by  Puvis  de  Chavannes.  One  can 
see  a  bit  of  the  North  Shore  and  Boston  Har- 
bor from  here.  This  is  the  view  that  the  Gov- 
ernor so  admired,  and  tradition  tells  us  that 
when  he  was  forced  to  return  to  England  he 


24  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

walked  on  foot  down  the  hill,  shaking  hands 
with  his  neighbors,  patriot  and  Tory  alike,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes  as  he  left  behind  him  the  gar- 
den and  the  trees  he  had  planted,  and  the  house 
where  he  had  so  happily  lived.  Although  the 
view  from  the  front  of  the  house  is  exquisite,  the 
view  from  the  back  holds  even  more  intimate 
attraction.  Here  is  the  old,  old  garden,  and  al- 
though the  ephemeral  blossoms  of  the  present 
springtime  shine  brightly  forth,  the  box,  full 
twenty  feet  high,  speaks  of  another  epoch.  Fox- 
gloves lean  against  the  "pleached  alley,"  and 
roses  clamber  on  a  wall  that  doubtless  bore  the 
weight  of  their  first  progenitors. 

Another  governor  who  chose  to  live  in  Mil- 
ton was  Jonathan  Belcher,  but  one  fancies  it 
was  the  grandness  rather  than  the  sweetness 
of  the  scene  which  attracted  this  rather  spec- 
tacular person.  The  Belcher  house  still  exists, 
as  does  the  portrait  of  its  master,  in  his  wig  and 
velvet  coat  and  waistcoat,  trimmed  with  rich- 
est gold  lace  at  the  neck  and  wrists.  Small- 
clothes and  gold  knee  and  shoe  buckles  com- 
plete the  picture  of  one  who,  when  his  mansion 


MILTON  AND  THE  BLUE  HILLS    25 

was  planned,  insisted  upon  an  avenue  fifty  feet 
wide,  and  so  nicely  graded  that  visitors  on  en- 
tering from  the  street  might  see  the  gleam  of 
his  gold  knee  buckles  as  he  stood  on  the  dis- 
tant porch.  The  avenue,  however,  was  never 
completed,  as  Belcher  was  appointed  governor 
of,  and  transferred  to,  New  Jersey  shortly  after. 

Two  other  men  of  note,  who,  since  the  days 
of  our  years  are  but  threescore  and  ten,  chose 
that  their  days  without  number  should  be 
spent  in  the  town  they  loved,  were  Wendell 
Phillips  and  Rimmer  the  sculptor,  who  are  both 
buried  at  Milton. 

Not  only  notable  personages,  but  notable 
events  have  been  engendered  under  the  shadow 
of  these  hills.  The  Suffolk  Resolves,  which  were 
the  prelude  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence, 
were  adopted  at  the  Vose  House,  which  still 
stands,  square  and  unadorned,  easy  of  access 
from  the  sidewalk,  as  is  suitable  for  a  home  of 
democracy.  The  first  piano  ever  made  in  this 
country  received  its  conception  and  was  brought 
to  fulfillment  in  the  Crehore  house,  which,  al- 
though still  sagging  a  bit,  is  by  no  means  out 


26          THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

of  commission.  And  Wilde's  Tavern,  where  was 
formed  the  public  opinion  in  a  day  when  the 
forming  of  public  opinion  was  of  preeminent 
importance,  still  retains,  in  its  broad,  hospita- 
ble lines,  some  shred  of  its  ancient  charm. 

Milton  is  full  of  history.  From  the  Revolu- 
tionary days,  when  the  cannonading  at  Bunker 
Hill  shook  the  foundations  of  the  houses,  but 
not  the  nerves  of  the  Milton  ladies,  down  to 
the  year  1919,  when  the  Fourth  Liberty  Loan 
of  $2,955,250  was  subscribed  from  a  popula- 
tion of  9000,  all  the  various  vicissitudes  of 
peace  and  war  have  been  sustained  on  the 
high  level  that  one  might  expect  from  men 
and  women  nobly  nurtured  by  the  strength  of 
the  hills. 

How  much  of  its  success  Milton  attributes 
to  its  location  —  for  one  joins,  indeed,  a  dis- 
tinguished fellowship  when  one  builds  upon 
a  hill,  or  on  several  hills,  as  Roman  as  well 
as  Bostonian  history  testifies  —  can  only  be 
guessed  by  its  tribute  in  the  form  of  the  Blue 
Hills  Reservation.  This  State  recreation  park 
and  forest  reserve  of  about  four  thousand  acres 


MILTON  AND  THE  BLUE  HILLS    27 

—  a  labyrinth  of  idyllic  footpaths  and  leafy 
trails,  of  twisting  drives  and  walks  that  open 
out  upon  superb  vistas,  is  now  the  property 
of  the  people  of  Massachusetts.  The  granite 
quarry  man  —  far  more  interested  in  the  value 
of  the  stone  that  underlay  the  wooded  slopes 
than  in  Ruskin's  theory  of  its  purifying  effect 
upon  the  inhabitants  —  had  already  obtained 
a  footing  here,  when,  under  the  able  leadership 
of  Charles  Francis  Adams,  the  whole  region 
was  taken  over  by  the  State  in  1894. 

As  you  pass  through  the  Reservation  —  and 
if  you  are  taking  even  the  most  cursory  glimpse 
of  Milton  you  must  include  some  portion  of 
this  park  —  you  will  pass  the  open  space  where 
in  the  early  days,  when  Milton  country  life  was 
modeled  upon  English  country  life  more  closely 
than  now,  Malcolm  Forbes  raced  upon  his  pri- 
vate track  the  horses  he  himself  had  bred.  The 
race-track  with  its  judges'  stands  is  still  there, 
but  there  are  no  more  horse-races,  although 
the  Forbes  family  still  holds  a  conspicuous 
place  in  all  the  social  as  well  as  the  philan- 
thropic enterprises  of  the  countryside.  You  may 


28  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

see,  too,  a  solitary  figure  with  a  scientist's 
stoop,  or  a  tutor  with  a  group  of  boys,  making 
a  first-hand  study  of  a  region  which  is  full  of 
interest  to  the  geologist. 

Circling  thus  around  the  base  of  the  Great 
Blue  Hill  and  irresistibly  drawn  closer  and 
closer  to  it  as  by  a  magnet,  one  is  impelled  to 
make  the  ascent  to  the  top  —  an  easy  ascent 
with  its  destination  clearly  marked  by  the 
Rotch  Meteorological  Observatory  erected  in 
1884  by  the  late  A.  Lawrence  Rotch  of  Milton, 
who  bequeathed  funds  for  its  maintenance.  It 
is  now  connected  with  Harvard  University. 

Once  at  the  top  the  eye  is  overwhelmed  by  a 
circuit  of  more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles ! 
It  is  almost  too  immense  at  first  —  almost  as 
barren  as  an  empty  expanse  of  rolling  green 
sea.  But  as  the  eye  grows  accustomed  to  the 
stretching  distances,  objects  both  near  and  far 
begin  to  appear.  And  soon,  if  the  day  is  clear, 
buildings  may  be  identified  in  more  than  one 
hundred  and  twenty-five  villages.  We  are  six 
hundred  and  thirty -five  feet  above  the  sea,  on 
the  highest  coastland  from  Agamenticus,  near 


MILTON  AND  THE  BLUE  HILLS    29 

York,  Maine,  to  the  Rio  Grande,  and  the  pano- 
rama thus  unrolled  is  truly  magnificent.  Facing 
northerly  we  can  easily  distinguish  Cambridge, 
Somerville,  and  Maiden,  and  far  beyond  the 
hills  of  Andover  and  Georgetown.  A  little  to 
the  east,  Boston  with  its  gilded  dome;  then  the 
harbor  with  its  islands,  headlands,  and  fortifi- 
cations. Beyond  that  are  distinctly  visible  va- 
rious points  on  the  North  Shore,  as  far  as 
Eastern  Point  Lighthouse  in  Gloucester.  Forty 
miles  to  the  northeast  appear  the  twin  light- 
houses on  Thatcher's  Island,  seeming,  from 
here,  to  be  standing,  not  on  the  land,  but  out 
in  the  ocean.  Nearer  and  more  distinct  is  Bos- 
ton Light  —  a  sentinel  at  the  entrance  to  the 
harbor,  while  beyond  it  stretches  Massachu- 
setts Bay.  Turning  nearly  east  the  eye,  passing 
over  Chickatawbut  Hill  —  three  miles  off  and 
second  in  height  of  the  Blue  Hills  —  follows 
the  beautiful  curve  of  Nantasket  Beach,  and 
the  pointing  finger  of  Minot's  Light.  Facing 
nearly  south,  the  long  ridge  of  Manomet  Hill 
in  Plymouth,  thirty-three  miles  away,  stands 
clear  against  the  sky,  while  twenty-six  miles 


30          THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

away,  in  Duxbury,  one  sees  the  Myles  Stand- 
ish  Monument.  Directly  south  rises  the  smoke 
of  the  city  of  Fall  River;  to  the  westerly,  Woon- 
socket,  and  continuing  to  the  west,  Mount  Wa- 
chusett  in  Princeton.  Far  to  the  right  of  Wa- 
chusett,  nearly  over  the  dome  of  the  Dedham 
Courthouse,  rounds  up  Watatic  in  Ashburn- 
ham,  and  northwest  a  dozen  peaks  of  southern 
New  Hampshire.  At  the  right  of  Watatic  and 
far  beyond  it  is  the  Grand  Monadnock  in  Jaf- 
frey,  3170  feet  above  the  sea  and  sixty-seven 
and  a  half  miles  away.  On  the  right  of  Grand 
Monadnock  is  a  group  of  nearer  summits: 
Mount  Kidder,  exactly  northwest;  Spofford 
and  Temple  Mountains;  then  appears  the  re- 
markable Pack-Monadnock,  near  Peterboro, 
with  its  two  equal  summits.  The  next  group  to 
the  right  is  in  Lyndeboro.  At  the  right  of 
Lyndeboro,  and  nearly  over  the  Readville  rail- 
road stations,  is  Joe  English  Hill,  and  to  com- 
plete the  round,  nearly  north-northwest  are 
the  summits  of  the  Uncanoonuc  Mountains, 
fifty-nine  miles  away. 

This,  then,  is  the  Great  Blue  Hill  of  Milton. 


MILTON  AND  THE  BLUE  HILLS    31 

Those  who  are  familiar  with  the  State  of  Mas- 
sachusetts —  and  New  England  —  can  stand 
here  and  pick  out  a  hundred  distinguishing 
landmarks,  and  those  who  have  never  been 
here  before  may  find  an  unparalleled  oppor- 
tunity to  see  the  whole  region  at  one  sweep  of 
the  eye. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  topography  the 
summit  of  Great  Blue  Hill  is  the  place  to  reach. 
But  for  the  sense  of  mysterious  beauty,  for 
snatches  of  pictures  one  will  never  forget,  the 
little  vistas  which  open  on  the  upward  or  the 
downward  trail,  framed  by  hanging  boughs 
or  encircled  by  a  half  frame  of  stone  and  hill- 
side—  these  are,  perhaps,  more  lovely.  The 
hill  itself,  seen  from  a  distance,  floating  lightly 
like  a  vast  blue  ball  against  a  vaster  sky,  is 
dreamily  suggestive  in  a  way  which  the  actual 
view,  superb  as  it  is,  is  not.  One  remembers 
Stevenson's  observation,  that  sometimes  to 
travel  hopefully  is  better  than  to  arrive.  So  let 
us  come  down,  for,  after  all,  "Love  is  of  the  val- 
ley." Down  again  to  the  old  town  of  Milton. 
We  have  not  half  begun  to  wander  over  it:  not 


32  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

half  begun  to  hear  the  pleasant  stories  it  has 
to  tell.  When  one  is  as  old  as  this  —  for  Milton 
was  discovered  by  a  band  from  Plymouth  who 
came  up  the  Neponset  River  in  1621  —  one  has 
many  tales  to  tell. 

Of  all  the  towns  along  the  South  Shore  there 
are  few  whose  feet  are  so  firmly  emplanted  in 
the  economic  history  of  the  past  and  present 
as  is  Milton.  That  peculiar  odor  of  sweetness 
which  drifts  to  us  with  a  turn  of  the  wind, 
comes  from  a  chocolate  mill  whose  trade-mark 
of  a  neat-handed  maid  with  her  little  tray  is 
known  all  over  the  civilized  world.  And  those 
mills  stand  upon  the  site  of  the  first  grist  mill  in 
New  England  to  be  run  by  water  power.  This 
was  in  1634,  and  one  likes  to  picture  the  sturdy 
colonists  trailing  into  town,  their  packs  upon 
their  backs,  like  children  in  kindergarten  games, 
to  have  their  grain  ground.  Israel  Stoughton 
was  the  name  of  the  man  who  established  this 
first  mill  —  a  name  perpetuated  in  the  near-by 
town  of  Stoughton. 

All  ground  is  historic  ground  in  Milton.  That 
rollicking  group  of  schoolboys  yonder  belongs 


MILTON  AND  THE  BLUE  HILLS    33 

to  an  academy,  which,  handsome  and  flourish- 
ing as  it  is  to-day,  was  founded  as  long  ago  as 
1787.  That  seems  long  ago,  but  there  was  a 
school  in  Milton  before  that:  a  school  held  in 
the  first  meeting-house.  Nothing  is  left  of  this 
quaint  structure  but  a  small  bronze  bas-relief, 
set  against  a  stone  wall,  near  its  original  site. 
This  early  church  and  early  school  was  a  log 
cabin  with  a  thatched  roof  and  latticed  win- 
dows, if  one  may  believe  the  relief,  but  men  of 
brains  and  character  were  taught  there  lessons 
which  stood  them  and  the  colony  in  good  stead. 
One  fancies  the  students'  roving  eyes  may  have 
occasionally  strayed  down  the  Indian  trail  di- 
rectly opposite  the  old  site  —  a  trail  which, 
although  now  attained  to  the  proud  rank  of  a 
lane,  Churchill's  Lane,  still  invites  one  down 
its  tangled  green  way  along  the  gray  stone  wall. 
Yes,  every  step  of  ground  has  its  tradition  here. 
Yonder  railroad  track  marks  the  spot  where  the 
very  first  tie  in  the  country  was  laid,  and  laid 
for  no  less  significant  purpose  than  to  facilitate 
the  carrying  of  granite  blocks  for  Bunker  Hill 
Monument  from  their  quarry  to  the  harbor. 


34  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

Granite  from  the  hills  —  the  hills  which 
swim  forever  against  the  sky  and  march  for- 
ever above  the  distant  horizon.  Again  we  are 
drawn  back  to  the  irresistible  magnet  of  those 
mighty  monitors.  Yes,  wherever  one  goes  in 
Milton,  either  on  foot  to-day  or  back  through 
the  chapters  of  three  centuries  ago,  the  Blue 
Hills  dominate  every  event,  and  the  Great 
Blue  Hill  floats  above  them  all. 

"I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills  from 
whence  cometh  my  help,"  chants  the  psalmist. 
Ah,  well,  no  one  can  say  it  better  than  that  — 
except  the  hills  themselves,  which,  with  gentle 
majesty,  look  down  affectionately  upon  the 
town  at  their  feet. 


CHAPTER  III 

SHIPBUILDING  AT  QUINCY 

THE  first  man-made  craft  which  floated 
on  the  waters  of  what  is  now  Fore  River 
was  probably  a  little  dugout,  a  crude  boat 
made  by  an  Indian,  who  burned  out  the  center 
of  a  pine  log  which  he  had  felled  by  girdling 
with  fire.  After  he  had  burned  out  as  much  as 
he  could,  he  scraped  out  the  rest  with  a  stone 
tool  called  a  "celt."  The  whole  operation  prob- 
ably took  one  Indian  three  weeks.  The  Riva- 
davia  which  slid  down  the  ways  of  the  Fore 
River  Shipbuilding  Corporation  in  August, 
1914,  weighed  13,400  tons  and  had  engaged  the 
labor  of  2000  men  for  fifty  months. 


36          THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

Between  these  two  extremes  flutter  all  the 
great  sisterhood  of  shallops,  sloops,  pinks, 
schooners,  snows,  the  almost  obsolete  batteau 
and  periagua,  the  gundelow  with  its  picturesque 
lateen  sail,  and  all  the  winged  host  that  are 
now  merely  names  in  New  England's  maritime 
history. 

We  may  not  give  in  this  limited  space  an 
account  of  the  various  vessels  which  have 
sailed  down  the  green-sea  aisles  the  last  three 
hundred  years.  But  of  the  very  first,  "a  great 
and  strong  shallop"  built  by  the  Plymouth  set- 
tlers for  fishing,  we  must  make  brief  mention, 
and  of  the  Blessing  of  the  Bay,  the  first  sea- 
worthy native  craft  to  be  built  and  launched 
on  these  shores  —  the  pioneer  of  all  New  Eng- 
land commerce.  Built  by  Governor  Winthrop, 
he  notes  of  her  in  his  journal  on  August  31, 
1631,  that  "the  bark  being  of  thirty  tons  went 
to  sea."  That  is  all  he  says,  but  from  that  sig- 
nificant moment  the  building  of  ships  went  on 
"gallantly,"  as  was  indeed  to  be  expected  in  a 
country  whose  chief  industry  was  fishing  and 
which  was  so  admirably  surrounded  by  natural 


SHIPBUILDING  AT  QUINCY       37 

bays  and  harbors.  In  1665  we  hear  of  the  Great 
and  General  Court  of  Massachusetts  —  which 
distinctive  term  is  still  applied  to  the  Massa- 
chusetts Legislature  —  forbidding  the  cutting 
of  any  trees  suitable  for  masts.  The  broad  ar- 
row of  the  King  was  marked  on  all  white  pines, 
twenty -four  inches  in  diameter,  three  feet  from 
the  ground.  Big  ships  and  little  ships  swarmed 
into  existence,  and  every  South  Shore  town 
made  shipbuilding  history.  The  ketch,  a  two- 
masted  vessel  carrying  from  fifteen  to  twenty 
tons,  carried  on  most  of  the  coasting  traffic, 
and  occasionally  ventured  on  a  foreign  voyage. 
When  we  recall  that  the  best  and  cheapest 
ships  of  the  latter  half  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury were  built  here  in  the  new  country,  we 
realize  that  shipyards,  ports,  docks,  proper 
laws  and  regulations,  and  the  invigorating 
progress  which  marks  any  thriving  industry 
flourished  bravely  up  and  down  the  whole  New 
England  coast. 

It  is  rather  inspiring  to  stand  here  on  the 
bridge  which  spans  the  Fore  River,  and  pic- 
ture that  first  crude  dugout  being  paddled 


38  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

along  by  the  steady  stroke  of  the  red  man,  and 
then  to  look  at  the  river  to-day.  Every  traveler 
through  Quincy  is  familiar  with  the  aerial  net- 
work of  steel  scaffolding  criss-crossing  the  sky, 
with  the  roofs  of  shops  and  offices  and  glimpses 
of  vessels  visible  along  the  water-front.  But  few 
travelers  realize  that  these  are  merely  the  su- 
perficial features  of  a  shipyard  which  under  the 
urge  of  the  Great  War  delivered  to  the  Navy, 
in  1918,  eighteen  completed  destroyers,  which 
was  as  many  as  all  the  other  yards  in  the 
country  put  together  delivered  during  this 
time.  A  shipyard  which  cut  the  time  of  building 
destroyers  from  anywhere  between  eighteen 
and  thirty-two  months  to  an  average  of  six 
months  and  a  half;  a  shipyard  which  made  the 
world's  record  of  one  hundred  and  seventy -four 
days  from  the  laying  of  the  keel  to  the  deliver- 
ing of  a  destroyer. 

It  is  difficult  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  these 
figures.  Difficult,  even  after  one  has  obtained 
entrance  into  this  city  within  a  city,  and  seen 
with  his  own  eyes  twenty  thousand  men  toiling 
like  Trojans.  Seen  a  riveting  crew  which  can 


SHIPBUILDING  AT  QUINCY       39 

drive  more  than  twenty-eight  hundred  rivets 
in  nine  hours;  battleships  that  weigh  thirty 
thousand  tons;  a  plate  yard  piled  with  steel 
plates  and  steel  bars  worth  two  million  dollars; 
cranes  that  can  lift  from  five  tons  up  to  others 
of  one  hundred  tons  capacity;  single  buildings 
a  thousand  feet  long  and  eighty  feet  high. 

Perhaps  the  enormousness  of  the  plant  is 
best  comprehended,  not  when  we  mechanically 
repeat  that  it  covers  eighty  acres  and  com- 
prises eighty  buildings,  and  that  four  full-sized 
steam  locomotives  run  up  and  down  its  yard, 
but  when  we  see  how  many  of  the  intimate 
things  of  daily  living  have  sprung  up  here  as 
little  trees  spring  up  between  huge  stones.  For 
the  Fore  River  Plant  is  more  than  an  indus- 
trial organization.  It  is  a  social  center,  an  eco- 
nomic entity.  It  has  its  band  and  glee  club,  ball 
team  and  monthly  magazine.  There  are  re- 
freshment stands,  and  a  bathing  cove;  a  brand- 
new  village  of  four  hundred  and  thirty-eight 
brand-new  houses ;  dormitories  which  accommo- 
date nearly  a  thousand  men  and  possess  every 
convenience  and  even  luxuries.  The  men  work 


40  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

hard  here,  but  they  are  well  paid  for  their  work, 
as  the  many  motor-cycles  and  automobiles 
waiting  for  them  at  night  testify.  It  is  a  scene 
of  incredible  industry,  but  also  of  incredible 
completeness. 

To  look  down  upon  the  village  and  the  yard 
from  the  throbbing  roof  of  the  steel  mill,  seven 
hundred  and  seventy  feet  long  and  a  hundred 
and  eighty-eight  wide,  is  a  thrilling  sight. 
Within  the  yard,  confined  on  three  sides  by  its 
high  fences  and  buildings  and  on  the  fourth  by 
Weymouth  Fore  River,  one  sees,  far  below,  lo- 
comotives moving  up  and  down  on  their  tracks ; 
great  cranes  stalking  long-leggedly  back  and 
forth;  smoke  from  foundry,  blacksmith  shop, 
and  boiler  shop;  men  hurrying  to  and  fro. 
Whistles  blow,  and  whole  buildings  tremble. 
The  smoke  and  the  grayness  might  make 
it  a  gloomy  scene  if  it  were  not  for  the  red 
sides  of  the  immense  submarines  gleaming 
in  their  wide  slips  to  the  water.  Everywhere 
one  sees  the  long  gray  sides  of  freighters,  de- 
stroyers, merchant  ships,  and  oil  tankers  heav- 
ing like  the  mailed  ribs  of  sea  animals  basking 


SHIPBUILDING  AT  QU1NCY       41 

on  the  shore.  Practically  every  single  opera- 
tion, from  the  most  stupendous  to  the  most 
delicate,  necessary  for  the  complete  construc- 
tion of  these  vessels,  is  carried  on  in  this  yard. 
The  eighty  acres  look  small  when  we  realize 
the  extent  and  variety  of  the  work  achieved 
within  its  limits. 

Yes,  the  solitary  Indian,  working  with  fire 
and  celt  on  his  dugout,  would  not  recognize 
this  once  familiar  haunt,  nor  would  he  know 
the  purpose  of  these  vast  vessels  without  sail  or 
paddle.  And  yet,  were  this  same  Indian  stand- 
ing on  the  roof  with  us,  he  would  see  a  wide 
stream  of  water  he  knew  well,  and  he  would  see, 
too,  above  the  smoke  of  the  furnace,  shop,  and 
boiler  room,  the  friendly  green  of  the  trees. 

Perhaps  there  is  nothing  which  makes  us 
realize  the  magical  rapidity  of  growth  so  much 
as  to  look  from  this  steel  city  and  to  see  the 
woods  close  by.  For  instead  of  being  surrounded 
by  the  sordid  congestion  of  an  industrial  cen- 
ter, the  Fore  River  Shipyard  is  in  the  midst  of 
practically  open  country. 

While  we  are  speaking  of  rapidity  we  must 


42          THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

look  over  toward  the  Victory  Plant  at  Squan- 
tum,  that  miraculous  marsh  which  was  drained 
with  such  expedition  that  just  twelve  months 
from  the  day  ground  was  broken  for  its  foun- 
dation, it  launched  its  first  ship,  and  less  than 
two  years  after  completed  its  entire  contract. 
Surely  never  in  the  history  of  shipbuilding 
have  brain  and  brawn  worked  so  brilliantly 
together! 

In  this  way,  then,  the  history  of  the  ships 
that  have  sailed  the  seven  seas  has  been  built 
up  at  Quincy  —  a  dramatic  history  and  one 
instinct  with  the  beauty  which  is  part  of  glid- 
ing canoe  and  white  sails,  and  part,  too,  of  the 
huge  smooth-slipping  monsters  of  a  modern 
day,  sleek  and  swift  as  leviathans.  But  all  the 
while  the  building  of  these  ships  has  been  going 
on,  there  has  been  slowly  rising  within  the  self- 
same radius  another  ship,  vaster,  more  inspir- 
ing, calling  forth  initiative  even  more  intense, 
idealism  even  more  profound  —  the  Ship  of 
State. 

We  who  journey  to-day  over  the  smooth  or 
troubled  waters  of  national  or  international 


SHIPBUILDING  AT  QUINCY       43 

affairs  are  no  more  conscious  of  the  infinite 
toil  and  labors  which  have  gone  into  the  intri- 
cate making  of  the  vessel  that  carries  us,  than 
are  travelers  conscious  of  the  cogs  and  screws, 
the  engines  and  all  the  elaboration  of  detail 
which  compose  an  ocean  liner.  Like  them  we 
sometimes  grumble  at  meals  or  prices,  at  some 
discourtesy  or  incompetence,  but  we  take  it  for 
granted  that  the  engine  is  in  commission,  that 
the  bottom  is  whole  and  the  chart  correct.  The 
great  Ship  of  State  of  this  country  may  occa- 
sionally run  into  rough  weather,  but  Americans 
believe  that,  in  the  last  analysis,  she  is  honestly 
built.  And  it  is  to  Quincy  that  we  owe  a  large 
initial  part  of  this  building. 

It  is  astonishing  to  enumerate  the  nota- 
ble public  men,  who  have  been  influential  in 
establishing  our  national  policy,  who  have 
come  from  Quincy.  There  is  no  town  in  this 
entire  country  which  can  equal  the  record. 
What  other  town  ever  produced  two  Presi- 
dents of  the  United  States,  an  Ambassador  to 
Great  Britain,  a  Governor  of  the  Common- 
wealth, a  Mayor  of  Boston,  two  presidents  of 


44  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

Harvard  University,  and  judges,  chief  jus- 
tices, statesmen,  and  orators  in  such  quantity 
and  of  such  quality?  Truly  this  group  of  emi- 
nent men  of  brilliance,  integrity,  and  public 
feeling  is  unique  in  our  history.  To  read  the 
biographies  of  Quincy's  great  men  would  com- 
prise a  studious  winter's  employment,  but  we, 
passing  through  the  historic  city,  may  hold 
up  our  fragment  of  a  mirror  and  catch  a  bit  of 
the  procession. 

First  and  foremost,  of  course,  will  come 
President  John  Adams,  he  who,  both  before 
and  after  his  term  of  high  office,  toiled  ter- 
rifically in  the  public  cause,  being  at  the 
time  of  his  election  to  Congress  a  member  of 
ninety  committees  and  a  chairman  of  twenty- 
five  !  We  see  him  as  the  portraits  have  taught 
us  to  see  him,  with  strong,  serious  face, — 
austere,  but  not  harsh,  —  velvet  coat,  white 
ruffles,  and  white  curls.  He  stands  before  us  as 
the  undisputed  founder  of  what  is  now  recog- 
nized as  American  diplomacy.  Straightforward, 
sound  to  the  core,  unswerving,  veracious,  ex- 
emplifying in  every  act  the  candor  of  the  Puri- 


SHIPBUILDING  AT  QUINCY       45 

tan,  so  congruous  with  the  new  simple  life  of 
a  nation  of  common  people.  I  think  we  shall 
like  best  to  study  him  as  he  stands  at  the  door 
of  the  little  house  in  which  he  was  born,  and 
which,  with  its  pitch  roof,  its  antique  door  and 
eaves,  is  still  preserved,  close  to  the  street,  for 
public  scrutiny. 

Next  to  President  John  Adams  comes  his 
son,  John  Quincy  Adams,  also  a  President  of 
the  United  States.  Spending  much  of  his  time 
abroad,  the  experience  of  those  diplomatic 
years  is  graven  upon  features  more  subtly  re- 
fined than  those  of  his  sire.  But  for  all  his 
foreign  residence,  he  was,  like  his  father,  a 
Puritan  in  its  most  exalted  sense;  like  him 
toiled  all  his  life  in  public  service,  dying  in  the 
harness  when  rising  to  address  the  Speaker  of 
the  House.  Him,  too,  we  see  best,  standing  at 
the  door  of  his  birthplace,  a  small  cottage  a 
stone's  throw  from  the  other  cottage,  sepa- 
rated only  by  a  turnstile.  Fresh  white  curtains 
hang  in  the  small-paned  windows;  the  grass  is 
neatly  trimmed,  and  like  its  quaint  companion 
it  is  now  open  to  the  public  and  worth  the 


46  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

tourist's  call.  Both  these  venerable  cottages 
have  inner  walls,  one  of  burnt,  the  other  of  un- 
burnt  brick;  and  both  are  unusual  in  having 
no  boards  on  the  outer  walls,  but  merely  clap- 
boards fastened  directly  on  to  the  studding 
with  wrought-iron  nails. 

Still  another  Adams  follows,  Charles  Francis 
Adams.  Although  a  little  boy  when  he  first 
comes  into  public  view,  a  little  boy  occupying 
the  conspicuous  place  as  child  of  one  President 
and  grandchild  of  another,  yet  he  was  to  win 
renown  and  honor  on  his  own  account  as  Am- 
bassador to  England  during  the  critical  period 
of  our  Civil  War.  America  remembers  him 
best  in  this  position.  His  firm  old  face  with  its 
white  chin  whiskers  is  a  worthy  portrait  in  the 
ancestral  gallery. 

Although  the  political  history  of  this  coun- 
try may  conclude  its  reference  to  the  Adamses 
with  these  three  famous  figures,  yet  all  New 
Englanders  and  all  readers  of  biography  would 
be  reluctant  to  turn  from  this  remarkable  fam- 
ily without  mention  of  the  sons  of  Charles 
Francis  Adams,  two  of  whom  have  written, 


SHIPBUILDING  AT  QUINCY       47 

beside  valuable  historical  works,  autobiog- 
raphies so  entertaining  and  so  truly  valuable 
for  their  contemporaneous  portraits  as  to  win 
a  place  of  survival  in  our  permanent  literature. 

A  member  of  the  Adams  family  still  lives  in 
the  comfortable  home  where  the  three  first  and 
most  famous  members  all  celebrated  their 
golden  weddings.  This  broad-fronted  and  hos- 
pitable house,  built  in  1730  by  Leonard  Vassal, 
a  West  India  planter,  for  his  summer  residence, 
with  its  library  finished  in  panels  of  solid  ma- 
hogany, was  confiscated  when  its  Royalist 
owner  fled  at  the  outbreak  of  the  Revolution, 
and  John  Adams  acquired  the  property  and 
left  the  pitch-roofed  cottage  down  the  street. 
The  home  of  two  Presidents,  what  tales  it 
could  tell  of  notable  gatherings !  One  must  read 
the  autobiography  of  Charles  Francis  Adams 
and  "The  Education  of  Henry  Adams"  to 
appreciate  the  charm  of  the  succeeding  mis- 
tresses of  the  noble  homestead,  and  to  enjoy 
in  retrospect  its  many  illustrious  visitors. 

To  have  produced  one  family  like  the 
Adamses  would  surely  be  sufficient  distinction 


48  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

for  any  one  place,  but  the  Adams  family  forms 
merely  one  unit  in  Quincy's  unique  procession 
of  great  men. 

The  Quincy  family,  for  which  the  town  was 
named,  and  which  at  an  early  date  intermarried 
with  the  Adamses,  presents  an  almost  parallel 
distinction.  The  first  Colonel  Quincy,  he  who 
lived  like  an  English  squire,  a  trifle  irascible, 
to  be  sure,  but  a  dignified  and  commanding 
figure  withal,  had  fourteen  children  by  his  first 
wife  and  three  by  his  second,  so  the  family 
started  off  with  the  advantage  of  numbers  as 
well  as  of  blood.  At  the  Quincy  mansion  house 
were  born  statesmen,  judges,  and  captains  of 
war.  The  "Dorothy  Q."  of  Holmes's  poem  first 
saw  the  light  in  it,  and  the  Dorothy  who  be- 
came the  bride  of  the  dashing  John  Hancock 
blossomed  into  womanhood  in  it.  Here  were 
entertained  times  without  number  Sir  Harry 
Vane,  quaint  Judge  Sewall,  Benjamin  Franklin, 
and  that  couple  who  gleam  through  the  annals 
of  New  England  history  in  a  never-fading 
flame  of  romance,  Sir  Harry  Frankland  and 
beautiful  Agnes  Surriage.  The  Quincy  man- 


SHIPBUILDING  AT  QUINCY       49 

sion,  which  was  built  about  1635  by  William 
Coddington  of  Boston  and  occupied  by  him 
until  he  was  exiled  for  his  religious  opinions, 
was  bought  by  Edmund  Quincy.  His  grand- 
son, who  bore  his  name,  enlarged  the  house, 
and  lived  in  it  until  his  death  when  it  de- 
scended to  his  son  Edmund,  the  eminent  jurist 
and  father  of  Dorothy.  The  old-fashioned 
furniture,  utensils  and  pictures,  the  broad  hall, 
fine  old  stairway  with  carved  balustrades,  and 
foreign  wall-paper  supposed  to  have  been  hung 
in  honor  of  the  approaching  marriage  of  Dor- 
othy to  John  Hancock,  are  still  preserved  in 
their  original  place.  Of  the  Quincy  family, 
whose  sedate  jest  it  was  that  the  estate  de- 
scended from  'Siah  to  'Siah,  so  frequent  was 
the  name  "  Josiah,"  the  best  known  is  perhaps 
the  Josiah  Quincy  who  was  Mayor  of  Boston 
for  six  years  and  president  of  Harvard  for  six- 
teen. The  portrait  of  his  long,  thin  face  is  part 
of  every  New  England  history,  and  his  busy, 
serene  life,  "compacted  of  Roman  and  Puritan 
virtues,"  is  still  upheld  to  all  American  chil- 
dren as  a  model  of  high  citizenship. 


50  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

But  not  even  the  long  line  of  the  Quincy 
family  completes  the  list  of  the  town's  great 
men.  Henry  Hope,  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
financiers  of  his  generation,  and  founder  of  a 
European  banking  house  second  only  to  that 
of  the  Rothchilds,  was  a  native  of  Quincy. 
John  Hull  —  who,  as  every  school-child  knows, 
on  the  day  of  his  daughter's  marriage  to 
Judge  Sewall,  placed  her  in  one  of  his  weighing 
scales,  and  heaped  enough  new  pine-tree  shil- 
lings into  the  other  to  balance,  and  then  pre- 
sented both  to  the  bridegroom  —  held  the 
first  grant  of  land  in  the  present  town  of 
Braintree  (which  originally  included  Quincy, 
Randolph,  and  Holbrook). 

From  the  picturesque  union  of  John  Hull's 
bouncing  daughter  Betsy  and  Judge  Sewall 
sprang  the  extraordinary  family  of  Sewalls 
which  has  given  three  chief  justices  to  Mas- 
sachusetts, and  one  to  Canada,  and  has  been 
distinguished  in  every  generation  for  the  tal- 
ents and  virtues  of  its  members.  In  passing, 
we  may  note  that  it  was  this  same  John  Hull 
who  named  Point  Judith  for  his  wife,  little 


SHIPBUILDING  AT  QUINCY       51 

dreaming  what  a  bete  noir  the  place  would 
prove  to  mariners  in  the  years  to  come. 

There  is  another  Quincy  man  whom  it  is 
pleasant  to  recall,  and  that  is  Henry  Flynt,  a 
whimsical  and  scholarly  old  bachelor,  who 
was  a  tutor  at  Harvard  for  no  less  than  fifty- 
three  years,  the  one  fixed  element  in  the  flow 
of  fourteen  college  generations.  One  of  the 
most  accomplished  scholars  of  his  day,  his  in- 
fluence on  the  young  men  with  whom  he  came 
in  contact  was  stimulating  to  a  degree,  and 
they  loved  to  repeat  bits  of  his  famous  rep- 
artee. A  favorite  which  has  come  down  to  us 
was  on  an  occasion  when  Whitefield  the  reviv- 
alist declared  in  a  theological  discussion:  "It 
is  my  opinion  that  Dr.  Tillotson  is  now  in  hell 
for  his  heresy."  To  which  Tutor  Flynt  retorted 
dryly:  "It  is  my  opinion  that  you  will  not 
meet  him  there." 

The  procession  of  Quincy 's  great  men  which 
we  have  been  watching  winds  its  way,  as  hu- 
man processions  are  apt  to  do,  to  the  old 
graveyard.  Most  of  the  original  settlers  are 
buried  here,  although  not  a  few  were  buried  on 


52          THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

their  own  land,  according  to  the  common  cus- 
tom. Probably  this  ancient  burying  ground, 
with  its  oldest  headstone  of  1663,  has  never 
been  particularly  attractive.  The  Puritans  did 
not  decorate  their  graveyards  in  any  way. 
Fearing  that  prayers  or  sermons  would  encour- 
age the  "  superstitions  "  of  the  Roman  Cath- 
olic Church,  they  shunned  any  ritual  over  the 
dead  or  beautifying  of  their  last  resting-place. 
However,  neglected  as  the  spot  was,  the  old 
stone  church,  whose  golden  belfry  is  such  a 
familiar  and  pleasant  landmark  to  all  the 
neighboring  countryside,  still  keeps  its  face 
turned  steadfastly  toward  it.  The  congested 
traffic  of  the  city  square  presses  about  its  por- 
tico, but  those  who  knew  and  loved  it  best  lie 
quietly  within  the  shadow  of  its  gray  walls. 
Under  the  portico  lies  President  John  Adams, 
and  "at  his  side  sleeps  until  the  trump  shall 
sound,  Abigail,  his  beloved  and  only  wife."  In 
the  second  chamber  is  placed  the  dust  of  his 
illustrious  son,  with  "His  partner  for  fifty 
years,  Louisa  Catherine "  —  she  of  whom 
Henry  Adams  wrote,  "her  refined  figure;  her 


SHIPBUILDING  AT  QUINCY       53 

gentle  voice  and  manner;  her  vague  effect  of 
not  belonging  there,  but  to  Washington  or 
Europe,  like  her  furniture  and  writing-desk 
with  little  glass  doors  above  and  little  eight- 
eenth-century volumes  in  old  binding." 

It  has  been  called  the  "church  of  states- 
men," this  dignified  building,  and  so,  indeed, 
might  Quincy  itself  be  called  the  "city  of 
statesmen."  It  would  be  extremely  interesting 
to  study  the  reasons  for  Quincy's  peculiar  pro- 
ductiveness of  noble  public  characters.  The 
town  was  settled  (as  Braintree)  exclusively  by 
people  from  Devonshire  and  Lincolnshire  and 
Essex.  The  laws  of  the  Massachusetts  Colony 
forbade  Irish  immigration  —  probably  more 
for  religious  than  racial  reasons.  On  reading 
the  ancient  petition  for  the  incorporation  of 
the  town  one  is  struck  by  the  fact  that  practi- 
cally every  single  name  of  the  one  hundred  and 
fifty  signers  is  English  in  origin,  the  few  which 
were  not  having  been  anglicized.  All  of  these 
facts  point  to  a  homogeneous  stock,  with  the 
same  language,  traditions,  and  social  customs. 
Obviously  there  is  a  connection  between  the 


54  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

governmental  genius  displayed  by  Quincy's 
sons  and  the  singular  purity  of  the  original 
English  stock. 

Little  did  Wampatuck,  the  son  of  Chicka- 
tawbut,  realize  what  he  was  doing  when  he 
parted  with  his  Braintree  lands  for  twenty -one 
pounds  and  ten  shillings.  The  Indian  deed  is 
still  preserved,  with  the  following  words  on  its 
back: "  In  the  17th  reign  of  Charles  2.  Braintry 
Indian  Deeds.  Given  1665.  Aug.  10:  Take 
great  care  of  it." 

Little  did  the  Indian  chief  realize  that  the 
surrounding  waters  were  to  float  hulks  as 
mighty  as  a  city;  that  the  hills  were  to  furnish 
granite  for  buildings  and  monuments  without 
number;  and  that  men  were  to  be  born  there 
who  would  shape  the  greatest  Ship  of  State  the 
world  has  ever  known.  And  yet,  if  he  had 
known,  possibly  he  would  have  accepted  the 
twenty-one  pounds  and  ten  shillings  just  the 
same,  and  departed  quietly.  For  the  ships  that 
were  to  be  built  would  never  have  pleased  him 
as  well  as  his  own  canoe;  the  granite  buildings 
would  have  stifled  him;  and  the  zealous 


SHIPBUILDING  AT  QUINCY       55 

Adamses  and  the  high-minded  Quincys  and 
Sewalls  and  all  the  rest  would  have  bored  him 
horribly.  Probably  the  only  item  in  the  whole 
history  of  Quincy  which  would  have  appealed 
to  Wampatuck  in  the  least  would  have  been 
the  floating  down  on  a  raft  of  the  old  Hollis 
Street  Church  of  Boston,  to  become  the  Union 
Church  of  Weymouth  and  Braintree  in  1810. 
This  and  the  similar  transportation  of  the 
Bowditch  house  from  Beacon  Street  in  Boston 
to  Quincy  a  couple  of  years  later  would  have 
fascinated  the  red  man,  as  the  recital  of  the 
feat  fascinates  us  to-day. 

Those  who  care  to  learn  more  of  Quincy  will 
do  well  to  read  the  autobiography  of  Charles 
Francis  Adams  and  "The  Education  of  Henry 
Adams."  Those  who  care  more  for  places  than 
for  descriptions  of  them  may  wander  at  will, 
finding  beneath  the  surface  of  the  modern  city 
many  landmarks  of  the  old  city  which  under- 
lies it.  They  may  see  the  scaffolding  of  the 
great  shipyards  latticing  themselves  against 
the  sky,  and  the  granite  quarries  against  the 
hills.  They  may  see  the  little  cottages  and  the 


56  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

great  houses  made  famous  by  those  who  have 
passed  over  their  thresholds;  they  may  linger 
in  the  old  burial  ground  and  trace  out  the 
epitaphs  under  the  portico  of  the  golden- 
belfried  church.  But  after  they  have  touched 
and  handled  all  of  these  things,  they  will  not 
understand  Quincy  unless  they  look  beyond 
and  recognize  her  greatest  contribution  to  this 
country  —  the  noble  statesmen  who  so  bravely 
and  intelligently  toiled  to  construct  America's 
Ship  of  State. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  WEYMOUTH 

THE  paintings  of  John  Constable,  idyllic 
in  their  quietness,  dewy  in  their  seren- 
ity —  how  many  travelers,  how  many  lovers  of 
art,  superficial  or  profound,  yearly  seek  out 
these  paintings  in  the  South  Kensington  Mu- 
seum or  the  Louvre,  and  stand  before  them 
wrapt  in  gentle  ecstasy? 

The  quality  of  Constable's  pictures  deline- 
ates in  luminous  softness  a  peculiarly  lovely 
side  of  English  rural  life,  but  one  need  not 
travel  to  England  or  France  to  see  this  love- 
liness. Wey mouth,  that  rambling  stretch  of 
towns  and  hamlets,  of  summer  colony  and  sub- 
urb, possesses  in  certain  areas  bits  of  rural 


58  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

landscape  as  serene,  as  dewy,  as  idyllically 
tranquil  as  Constable  at  his  best. 

Comparatively  few  people  in  New  England, 
or  out  of  it,  know  Weymouth  well.  Every  one 
has  heard  of  it,  for  it  is  next  in  age  to  the  town 
of  Plymouth  itself,  and  every  one  who  travels 
to  the  South  Shore  passes  some  section  of  it, 
for  it  extends  lengthily  —  north  and  south, 
east  and  west  —  being  the  only  town  in  Massa- 
chusetts to  retain  its  original  boundaries.  And 
numbers  of  people  are  familiar  with  certain 
parts  of  it,  for  there  are  half  a  score  of  villages 
in  the  township,  some  of  them  summer  settle- 
ments, some  of  them  animated  by  an  all-the- 
year-round  life.  But  compared  with  the  other 
towns  along  this  historic  route,  Weymouth  as 
a  whole  is  little  known  and  little  appreciated. 
And  yet  the  history  of  Weymouth  is  not  with- 
out amusing  and  edifying  elements,  and  the 
scenery  of  Weymouth  is  worthy  of  the  detour 
that  strangers  rarely  make. 

"Old  Spain"  is  the  romantic  name  for  an 
uninteresting  part  of  the  township,  and,  con- 
versely, Commercial  Street  is  the  uninterest- 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  WEYMOUTH  59 

ing  name  for  a  romantic  part.  It  is  along  a 
highway  stigmatized  by  such  a  name  that  one 
gets  the  glimpses  of  a  Constable  country: 
glimpses  of  rolling  meadows,  of  fertile  groves, 
of  cattle  grazing  in  elm-shaded  pastures,  of  a 
road  winding  contentedly  among  simple,  an- 
cient cottages,  and  quiet,  thrifty  farms.  These 
are  the  homes  which  belong,  and  have  belonged 
for  generations,  to  people  who  are  neither  rich 
nor  poor;  cozy,  quaint,  suggesting  in  an  odd 
way  the  thatched-roof  cottages  of  England. 
Not  that  all  of  Weymouth's  homes  are  of  this 
order.  The  Asa  Webb  Cowing  house,  which 
terminates  Commercial  Street  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  the  square  of  the  town  of  Weymouth, 
is  one  of  the  very  finest  examples  of  the  Colo- 
nial architecture  in  this  country.  The  exquisite 
tracery  and  carving  over  and  above  the  front 
door,  and  the  white  imported  marble  window 
lintels  spin  an  elaborate  and  marvelously  fine 
lacework  of  white  over  the  handsome  red- 
brick fagade.  Although  it  is,  alas,  falling  some- 
what into  disrepair,  perfect  proportion  and 
gemlike  workmanship  still  stamp  the  vener- 


60  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

able  mansion  as  one  of  patrician  heritage. 
There  are  other  excellent  examples  of  archi- 
tecture in  Weymouth,  but  the  Cowing  house 
must  always  be  the  star,  both  because  of  its 
extraordinary  beauty  and  conspicuous  posi- 
tion. Yes,  if  you  want  a  characteristic  glimpse 
of  Weymouth,  you  cannot  do  better  than  to 
begin  in  front  of  this  landmark,  and  drive  down 
Commercial  Street.  Here  for  several  smiling 
miles  there  is  nothing  —  no  ugly  building  large 
or  small,  no  ruthless  invasion  of  modernity  to 
mar  the  mood  of  happy  simplicity.  Her  beauty 
of  beach,  of  sky,  of  river,  Weymouth  shares 
with  other  South  Shore  towns.  Her  perfection 
of  idyllic  rusticity  is  hers  alone. 

Just  as  Weymouth's  scenery  is  unlike  that 
of  her  neighbors,  so  her  history  projects  itself 
from  an  entirely  different  angle  from  theirs. 
While  they  were  conceived  by  zealous,  God- 
fearing men  and  women  honestly  seeking  to 
establish  homes  in  a  new  country,  Weymouth 
was  inadvertently  born  through  the  miscon- 
duct of  a  set  of  adventurers.  Not  every  one 
who  came  to  America  in  those  significant  early 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  WEYMOUTH    61 

years  came  impelled  by  lofty  motives.  There 
were  scapegraces,  bad  boys,  rogues,  mercena- 
ries, and  schemers;  and  perhaps  it  is  entirely 
logical  that  the  winning  natural  loveliness  of 
this  place  should  have  lured  to  her  men  who 
were  not  of  the  caliber  to  face  more  exposed, 
less  fertile  sections,  and  men  to  whom  beauty 
made  an  especial  appeal. 

The  Indians  early  found  Wessagusset,  as 
they  called  it,  an  important  rendezvous,  as  it 
was  accessible  by  land  and  sea,  and  there  were 
probably  temporary  camps  there  previous  to 
1620,  formed  by  fishermen  and  traders  who 
visited  the  New  England  coast  to  traffic  with 
the  natives.  But  it  was  not  until  the  arrival 
of  Thomas  Weston  in  1622  that  Weymouth's 
history  really  begins.  And  then  it  begins  in  a 
topsy-turvy  way,  so  unlike  Puritan  New  Eng- 
land that  it  makes  us  rub  our  eyes,  wondering 
if  it  is  really  true. 

This  Thomas  Weston,  who  was  a  merchant 
adventurer  of  London,  took  it  into  his  head  to 
establish  a  colony  in  the  new  country  entirely 
different  from  the  Plymouth  Colony.  He  had 


62  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

been  an  agent  of  the  Pilgrims  in  their  negotia- 
tions with  the  Plymouth  Company,  and  when 
he  broke  off  the  connection  it  was  to  start  a 
settlement  which  should  combine  all  of  the 
advantages,  with  none  of  the  disadvantages, 
of  the  Plymouth  Colony.  First  of  all,  it  was 
to  be  a  trading  community  pure  and  simple, 
with  its  object  frankly  to  make  money.  Second, 
it  was  to  be  composed  of  men  without  families 
and  familiar  with  hardship.  And  third,  there 
was  no  religious  motive  or  bond.  That  such  an 
unidealistic  enterprise  should  not  flourish  on 
American  soil  is  worth  noting.  The  disorderly, 
thriftless  rabble,  picked  up  from  the  London 
streets,  soon  got  into  trouble  with  the  Indians 
and  with  neighboring  colonists,  and  finally, 
undone  by  the  results  of  their  own  improvi- 
dence and  misbehavior,  wailed  that  they 
"wanted  to  go  back  to  London,"  to  which  end 
the  Plymouth  settlers  willingly  aided  them, 
glad  to  get  them  out  of  the  country.  Thus 
ended  the  first  inauspicious  settlement  of 
Wey  mouth. 

The  second,  which  was  undertaken  shortly 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  WEYMOUTH    63 

after  by  Robert  Gorges,  broke  up  the  follow- 
ing spring,  leaving  only  a  few  remnants  behind. 
Sir  Ferdinando  Gorges,  who  was  not  a  Span- 
iard as  his  name  suggests,  but  a  picturesque 
Elizabethan  and  a  kinsman  of  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh,  essayed  (through  his  son  Robert)  an 
experimental  government  along  practically 
the  same  commercial  lines  as  had  Weston,  and 
his  failure  was  as  speedy  and  complete  as 
Weston's  had  been. 

A  third  attempt,  while  hardly  more  success- 
ful, furnishes  one  of  the  gayest  and  prettiest 
episodes  in  the  whole  history  of  New  England. 
Across  the  somber  procession  of  earnest-faced 
men  and  women,  across  the  psalm-singing 
and  the  praying,  across  the  incredible  toil 
of  the  pioneers  at  Plymouth  now  flashes  the 
brightly  costumed  and  pleasure-loving  courtier, 
Thomas  Morton.  An  agent  of  Gorges,  Mor- 
ton with  thirty  followers  floated  into  Wessa- 
gusset  to  found  a  Royalist  and  Episcopalian 
settlement.  This  Episcopalian  bias  was  quite 
enough  to  account  for  Bradford's  disparaging 
description  of  him  as  a  "kind  of  petie-fogie  of 


64  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

Furnifells  Inn,"  and  explains  why  the  early 
historians  never  made  any  fuller  or  more  favor- 
able record  than  absolutely  necessary  of  these 
neighbors  of  theirs,  although  the  churchman 
Samuel  Maverick  admits  that  Morton  was  a 
"gentleman  of  good  qualitee." 

But  it  was  for  worse  sins  than  his  connec- 
tion with  the  Established  Church  that  Mor- 
ton's name  became  synonymous  with  scandal 
throughout  the  whole  Colony.  In  the  very 
midst  of  the  dun-colored  atmosphere  of  Puri- 
tanism, in  the  very  heart  of  the  pious  pioneer 
settlement  this  audacious  scamp  set  up,  ac- 
cording to  Bradford,  "a  schoole  of  atheisme, 
and  his  men  did  quaff  strong  waters  and  com- 
port themselves  as  if  they  had  anew  revived 
and  celebrated  the  feasts  of  ye  Roman  Goddess 
Flora,  or  the  beastly  practises  of  ye  madd 
Bachanalians."  The  charge  of  atheism  in  this 
case  seems  based  on  the  fact  that  Morton  used 
the  Book  of  Common  Prayer,  but  as  for  the 
rest,  there  is  no  question  that  this  band  of 
silken  merry-makers  imported  many  of  the 
carnival  customs  and  hereditary  pastimes  of 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  WEYMOUTH    65 

Old  England  to  the  stern  young  New  England; 
that  they  fraternized  with  the  Indians,  shared 
their  strong  waters  with  them,  and  taught 
them  the  use  of  firearms;  and  that  Merry- 
mount  became  indeed  a  scene  of  wildest 
revelry. 

The  site  of  Merrymount  had  originally  been 
selected  by  Captain  Wollaston  for  a  trading 
post.  Imbued  with  the  same  mercenary  motive 
which  had  proved  fatal  in  the  case  of  Weston 
and  Gorges,  Captain  Wollaston,  whose  name 
is  perpetuated  in  Mount  Wollaston,  brought 
with  him  in  1625  a  gang  of  indented  white 
servants.  Finding  his  system  of  industry  ill 
suited  to  the  climate,  he  carried  his  men  to 
Virginia,  where  he  sold  them.  When  he  left, 
Morton  took  possession  of  the  place  and 
dubbed  it  "Ma-re-mount."  And  then  began 
the  pranks  which  shook  the  Colony  to  its 
foundations.  Picture  to  yourself  a  band  of 
sworn  triflers,  dedicated  to  the  wildest  phi- 
losophy of  pleasure,  teaching  bears  to  dance, 
playing  blind-man's  buff,  holding  juggling  and 
boxing  matches,  and  dancing.  According  to 


66  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

Hawthorne,  on  the  eve  of  Saint  John  they 
felled  whole  acres  of  forests  to  make  bonfires, 
and  crowned  themselves  with  flowers  and 
threw  the  blossoms  into  the  flames.  At  harvest- 
time  they  hilariously  wasted  their  scanty  store 
of  Indian  corn  by  making  an  image  with  the 
sheaves,  and  wreathing  it  with  the  painted 
garlands  of  autumn  foliage.  They  crowned  the 
King  of  Christmas  and  bent  the  knee  to  the 
Lord  of  Misrule !  Such  fantastic  foolery  is  in- 
conceivable in  a  Puritan  community,  and  the 
Maypole  which  was  its  emblem  was  the  most 
inconceivable  of  all.  This  "flower-decked 
abomination,"  ornamented  with  white  birch 
bark,  banners,  and  blossoms,  was  the  center 
of  the  tipsy  jollity  of  Merrymount.  As  Morton 
explains:  "A  goodly  pine  tree  of  eighty  foote 
was  reared  up,  with  a  peare  of  bucks  horns 
nayled  on  somewhere  near  to  the  top  of  it: 
where  it  stood  as  a  f aire  sea  mark  for  directions 
how  to  find  out  the  way  to  mine  host  of  Ma-re- 
mount." Around  this  famous,  or  infamous, 
pole  Morton  and  his  band  frolicked  with  the 
Indians  on  May  Day  in  1627.  As  the  indignant 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  WEYMOUTH    67 

historian  writes:  "Unleashed  pagans  from  the 
purlieus  of  the  gross  court  of  King  James, 
danced  about  the  Idoll  of  Merry  Mount,  join- 
ing hands  with  the  lasses  in  beaver  coats,  and 
singing  their  ribald  songs." 

It  does  n't  look  quite  so  heinous  to  us,  this 
Maypole  dancing,  as  it  did  to  the  outraged 
Puritans.  In  fact,  the  story  of  Morton  and 
Merrymount  is  one  of  the  few  glistening 
threads  in  the  somber  weaving  of  those  early 
days.  But  the  New  England  soil  was  not  pre- 
pared at  that  time  to  support  any  such  exotic, 
and  Myles  Standish  was  sent  to  disperse  the 
frivolous  band,  and  to  order  Morton  back  to 
England,  which  he  did,  after  a  scrimmage 
which  Morton  relates  with  great  vivacity  and 
doubtful  veracity  in  his  "New  English  Ca- 


naan." 


This  "New  English  Canaan,"  by  the  way, 
had  a  rather  singular  career.  Morton  tells  in  it 
many  amusing  stories,  and  one  of  them  was 
destined  to  a  remarkable  perpetuity  in  English 
literature.  The  story  deals  with  the  Wessa- 
gusset  settlers  promising  to  hang  one  of  their 


68  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

own  members  who  had  been  caught  stealing  — 
this  hanging  in  order  to  appease  the  Indians. 
Morton  gravely  states  that  instead  of  hanging 
the  real  culprit,  who  was  young  and  lusty, 
they  hanged,  in  his  place,  another,  old  and 
sick.  In  his  quaint  diction:  "You  all  agree  that 
one  must  die,  and  one  shall  die,  this  young 
man's  cloathes  we  will  take  off  and  put  upon 
one  that  is  old  and  impotent,  a  sickly  person 
that  cannot  escape  death,  such  is  the  disease 
on  him  confirmed,  that  die  hee  must.  Put  the 
young  man's  cloathes  on  this  man,  and  let  the 
sick  person  be  hanged  in  the  other's  steade. 
Amen  sayes  one,  and  so  sayes  many  more." 
This  absurd  notion  of  vicarious  atonement, 
spun  purely  from  Morton's  imagination,  ap- 
pealed to  Samuel  Butler  as  worthy  of  further 
elaboration.  Morton's  "New English  Canaan" 
appeared  in  1632.  About  thirty  years  later 
the  second  part  of  the  famous  English  satire 
"Hudibras"  appeared,  embodying  Morton's 
idea  in  altered  but  recognizable  form,  in  what 
was  the  most  popular  English  book  of  the  day. 
This  satire,  appearing  when  the  reaction  against 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  WEYMOTJTH    69 

Puritanism  was  at  its  height,  was  accepted  and 
solemnly  deposited  at  the  door  of  the  good 
people  of  Boston  and  Plymouth!  And  thus  it 
was  that  Morton's  fabricated  tale  of  the  Wey- 
mouth  hanging  passed  into  genuine  history 
along  with  the  "blue  laws"  of  Connecticut. 
One  cannot  help  believing  that  the  mischievous 
perpetrator  of  the  fable  laughed  up  his  sleeve 
at  its  result,  and  one  cannot  resist  the  thought 
that  he  was  probably  delighted  to  have  the 
scandal  attached  to  those  righteous  neighbors 
of  his  who  had  run  him  out  of  his  dear  Ma-re- 
mount. 

However,  driven  out  he  was:  the  Maypole 
about  which  the  revelers  had  danced  was 
hewed  down  by  the  stern  zealots  who  believed 
in  dancing  about  only  one  pole,  and  that  the 
whipping-post.  Merrymount  was  deserted. 

Certainly  Weymouth,  the  honey  spot  which 
attracted  not  industrious  bees,  but  only  drones, 
was  having  a  hard  time  getting  settled !  It  was 
not  until  the  Reverend  Joseph  Hull  received 
permission  from  the  General  Court  to  settle 
here  with  twenty-one  families,  from  Wey- 


70  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

mouth,  England,  that  the  town  was  at  last 
shepherded  into  the  Puritan  fold. 

These  settlers,  of  good  English  stock  and 
with  the  earnest  ideals  of  pioneers,  soon 
brought  the  community  into  good  repute,  and 
its  subsequent  life  was  as  respectable  and  un- 
eventful as  that  of  a  reformed  roue.  In  fact 
there  is  practically  no  more  history  for  Wey- 
mouth.  There  are  certainly  no  more  raids  upon 
merry-makers;  no  more  calls  from  the  cricket 
colony  which  had  sung  all  summer  on  the 
banks  of  the  river  to  the  ant  colony  which  had 
providently  toiled  on  the  shore  of  the  bay; 
no  more  experimental  governments;  no  more 
scandal.  The  men  and  women  of  the  next  five 
generations  were  a  poor,  hard-working  race, 
rising  early  and  toiling  late.  The  men  worked 
in  the  fields,  tending  the  flocks,  planting  and 
gathering  the  harvest.  The  women  worked  in 
the  houses,  in  the  dairies  and  kitchens,  at  the 
spinning-wheel  and  washtub.  The  privations 
and  loneliness,  which  are  part  of  every  strug- 
gling colony,  were  augmented  here,  where  the 
houses  did  not  cluster  about  the  church  and 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  WEYMOUTH  71 

burial  ground,  but  were  scattered  and  far  away. 
This  peculiarity  of  settlement  meant  much  in 
days  where  there  was  no  newspaper,  no  sys- 
tem of  public  transportation,  no  regular  post, 
and  Europe  was  months  removed.  A  few  of 
the  young  men  went  with  the  fishing  fleet  to 
Cape  Sable,  or  sailed  on  trading  vessels  to  the 
West  Indies  or  Spain,  but  it  is  doubtful  if  any 
Weymouth-born  woman  ever  laid  eyes  on  the 
mother  country  during  the  first  hundred  and 
fifty  years. 

The  records  of  the  town  are  painfully  dull. 
They  are  taken  up  by  small  domestic  matters : 
the  regulations  for  cattle;  running  boundary 
lines,  locating  highways,  improving  the  town 
common,  fixing  fines  for  roving  swine  or  agree- 
ing to  the  division  of  a  whale  found  on  the 
shore.  There  was  more  or  less  bickering  over 
the  salary  of  the  town  clerk,  who  was  to  receive 
thirty -three  pounds  and  fourteen  shillings 
yearly  to  keep  "A  free  school  and  teach  all 
children  and  servants  sent  him  to  read  and 
write  and  cast  accounts." 

Added  to  the  isolation  and  pettiness  of  town 


72  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

affairs,  the  winters  seem  to  have  been  longer, 
the  snows  deeper,  the  frosts  more  severe  in 
those  days.  We  have  records  of  the  harbor 
freezing  over  in  November,  and  "in  March 
the  winter's  snow,  though  much  reduced,  still 
lay  on  a  level  with  the  fences,  nor  was  it  until 
April  that  the  ice  broke  up  in  Fore  River." 
They  were  difficult  —  those  days  ushered  in 
by  the  Reverend  Joseph  Hull.  Through  long 
nights  and  cold  winters  and  an  endless  round 
of  joyless  living,  Weymouth  expiated  well  for 
the  sins  of  her  youth.  Even  as  late  as  1767  we 
read  of  the  daughter  of  Parson  Smith,  of  Wey- 
mouth—  now  the  wife  of  John  Adams,  of 
Quincy  —  scrubbing  the  floor  of  her  own  bed- 
chamber the  afternoon  before  her  son  —  des- 
tined to  become  President  of  the  United  States, 
as  his  father  was  before  him  —  was  born. 

But  the  English  stock  brought  in  by  the 
Reverend  Hull  was  good  stock.  We  may  not 
envy  the  ladies  scrubbing  their  own  floors  or 
the  men  walking  to  Boston,  but  many  of  the 
best  families  of  this  country  are  proud  to  trace 
their  origin  back  to  Weymouth.  Maine,  New 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  WEYMOUTH    73 

Hampshire,  and  Vermont;  then  New  York, 
Rhode  Island,  and  Connecticut  attracted  men 
from  Wey mouth.  Later  the  Middle  West  and 
the  Far  West  called  them.  In  fact  for  over  a 
century  the  town  hardly  raised  its  number  of 
population,  so  energetic  was  the  youth  it  pro- 
duced. 

As  happens  with  lamentable  frequency, 
when  Weymouth  ceased  to  be  naughty  she 
also  ceased  to  be  interesting.  After  poring  over 
the  dull  pages  of  the  town  history,  one  is  some- 
times tempted  to  wonder  if,  perhaps,  the  irrev- 
erent Morton  did  not,  for  all  his  sins,  divine  a 
deeper  meaning  in  this  spot  than  the  respect- 
able ones  who  came  after  him.  One  cannot 
read  the  "New  English  Canaan"  without  re- 
gretting a  little  that  this  happy-natured  fellow 
was  so  unceremoniously  bustled  out  of  the 
country.  Whatever  Morton's  discrepancies 
may  have  been,  his  response  to  beauty  was 
lively  and  true :  whatever  his  morals,  his  prose 
is  delightful.  All  the  town  records  and  memo- 
rial addresses  of  all  the  good  folk  subsequent 
contain  no  such  tribute  to  Weymouth,  and 


74  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

paint  no  picture  so  true  of  that  which  is  still 
best  in  her,  as  these  loving  words  of  the  erst- 
while master  of  Merrymount. 

"And  when  I  had  more  seriously  considered 
the  bewty  of  the  place,  with  all  her  fair  endow- 
ments, I  did  not  think  that  in  all  the  knowne 
world  it  could  be  paralel'd.  For  so  many  goodly 
groves  of  trees:  dainty  fine  round  rising  hil- 
locks: delicate  faire  large  plaines:  sweete  crys- 
tal fountains,  and  clear  running  streams,  that 
twine  in  fine  meanders  through  the  meads, 
making  so  sweet  a  murmuring  noise  to  heare, 
as  would  even  lull  the  senses  with  delight 
asleep,  so  pleasantly  doe  they  glide  upon  the 
pebble  stones,  jetting  most  jocundly  where 
they  doe  meet;  and  hand  in  hand  run  down  to 
Neptune's  court,  to  pay  the  yearly  tribute 
which  they  owe  to  him  as  soveraigne  Lord  of 
all  the  Springs." 


CHAPTER  V 

ECCLESIASTICAL  HINGHAM 

SHOULD  you  walk  along  the  highway 
from  Quincy  to  Hingham  on  a  Sunday 
morning  you  would  be  passed  by  many  auto- 
mobiles, for  the  Old  Coast  Road  is  now  one  of 
the  great  pleasure  highways  of  New  England. 
Many  of  the  cars  are  moderately  priced  affairs, 
the  tonneau  well  filled  with  children  of  mis- 
cellaneous ages,  and  enlivened  by  a  family  dog 
or  two  —  for  this  is  the  way  that  the  average 
American  household  spends  its  modern  Sab- 
bath holiday.  Now  and  then  a  limousine,  ex- 
quisite in  workmanship  within  and  without, 
driven  by  a  chauffeur  in  livery  and  tenanted 


76  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

by  a  single  languid  occupant,  rolls  noiselessly 
past.  A  strange  procession,  indeed,  for  a  road 
originally  marked  by  the  moccasined  feet  of 
Indians,  and  widened  gradually  by  the  toil- 
some journeyings  of  rough  Colonial  carts  and 
coaches. 

It  is  difficult  to  say  which  feature  of  the 
steadily  moving  travel  would  most  forcibly 
strike  the  original  Puritan  settlers  of  the  town: 
the  fact  that  even  the  common  man  —  the 
poor  man  —  could  own  such  a  vehicle  of  speed 
and  ease,  or  the  fact  that  America  —  such  a 
short  time  ago  a  wilderness  —  could  produce, 
not  as  the  finest  flower  on  its  tree  of  evolution, 
but  certainly  as  its  most  exotic,  the  plutocrat 
who  lives  in  a  palace  with  fifty  servants  to  do 
his  bidding,  and  the  fine  lady  whose  sole  exer- 
cise of  her  mental  and  physical  functions  con- 
sists in  allowing  her  maid  to  dress  her.  Yes, 
New  England  has  changed  amazingly  in  the 
revolutions  of  three  centuries,  and  here,  under 
the  shadow  of  this  square  plain  building  - 
Hingham's  Old  Ship  Church  —  while  we  pause 
to  watch  the  Sunday  pageant  of  1920,  we  can 


ECCLESIASTICAL  HINGHAM      77 

most  easily  call  back  the  Sabbath  rites,  and 
the  ideals  which  created  those  rites,  three  cen- 
turies ago. 

It  is  the  year  of  1681.  This  wooden  meeting- 
house, with  the  truncated  pyramidal  roof  and 
belfry  (to  serve  as  a  lookout  station),  has  just 
been  built.  A  stage  ahead,  architecturally,  of 
the  log  meeting-house  with  clay-filled  chinks, 
thatched  roof,  oiled-paper  windows,  earthen 
floor,  and  a  stage  behind  the  charming  steeple 
style  made  popular  by  Sir  Christopher  Wren, 
and  now  multiplied  in  countless  graceful  ex- 
amples all  over  New  England,  the  Old  Ship  is 
entirely  unconscious  of  the  distinction  which 
is  awaiting  it  —  the  distinction  of  being  the 
oldest  house  for  public  worship  in  the  United 
States  which  still  stands  on  its  original  site, 
and  which  is  still  used  for  its  original  purpose. 
In  the  year  1681  it  is  merely  the  new  meeting- 
house of  the  little  hamlet  of  Hingham.  The 
people  are  very  proud  of  their  new  building. 
The  timbers  have  been  hewn  with  the  broad- 
axe  out  of  solid  white  pine  (the  marks  are  still 
visible,  particularly  in  those  rafters  of  the 


78          THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

roof  open  to  the  attic).  The  belfry  is  precisely 
in  the  center  of  the  four-sided  pitched  roof.  To 
be  sure  this  necessitates  ringing  the  bell  from 
one  of  the  pews,  but  a  little  later  the  bell- 
ringer  will  stand  above,  and  through  a  pane  of 
glass  let  into  the  ceiling  he  will  be  able  to  see 
when  the  minister  enters  the  pulpit.  The  orig- 
inal backless  benches  were  replaced  by  box 
pews  with  narrow  seats  like  shelves,  hung  on 
hinges  around  three  sides,  but  part  of  the 
original  pulpit  remains  and  a  few  of  the  box 
pews.  In  1681  the  interior,  like  the  exterior,  is 
sternly  bare.  No  paint,  no  decorations,  no  col- 
ored windows,  no  organ,  or  anything  which 
could  even  remotely  suggest  the  color,  the 
beauty,  the  formalism  of  the  churches  of  Eng- 
land. The  unceiled  roof  shows  the  rafters 
whose  arched  timbers  remind  one  that  ships' 
carpenters  have  built  this  house  of  God. 

This,  then,  is  the  meeting-house  of  1681. 
What  of  the  services  conducted  there? 

In  the  first  place,  they  are  well  attended. 
And  why  not,  since  in  1635  the  General  Court 
decreed  that  no  dwelling  should  be  placed 


ECCLESIASTICAL  HINGHAM      79 

more  than  half  a  mile  away  from  the  meeting- 
house of  any  new  "plantation"  —  thus  elim- 
inating the  excuse  of  too  great  distance?  Every 
one  is  expected,  nay,  commanded,  to  come  to 
church.  In  fact,  after  the  tolling  of  the  last 
bell,  the  houses  may  all  be  searched  —  each 
ten  families  is  under  an  inspector  —  if  there  is 
any  question  of  delinquents  hiding  in  them. 
And  so  in  twos  and  threes,  often  the  man 
trudging  ahead  with  his  gun  and  the  woman 
carrying  her  baby  while  the  smaller  children 
cling  to  her  skirts,  sometimes  man  and  woman 
and  a  child  or  two  on  horseback,  no  matter 
how  wild  the  storm,  how  swollen  the  streams, 
how  deep  the  whirling  snow  —  they  all  come 
to  church :  old  folk  and  infants  as  well  as  adults 
and  children.  The  congregation  either  waits 
for  the  minister  and  his  wife  outside  the  door, 
or  stands  until  he  has  entered  the  pulpit.  Once 
inside  they  are  seated  with  the  most  meticu- 
lous exactness,  according  to  rank,  age,  sex,  and 
wealth.  The  small  boys  are  separated  from 
their  families  and  kept  in  order  by  tithing-men 
who  allow  no  wandering  eyes  or  whispered 


80  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

words.  The  deacons  are  in  the  "fore"  seats; 
the  elderly  people  are  sometimes  given  chairs 
at  the  end  of  the  "pues";  and  the  slaves  and 
Indians  are  in  the  rear.  To  seat  one's  self  in 
the  wrong  "pue"  is  an  offense  punishable  by 
a  fine. 

"Here  is  the  church,  and  here  are  the  peo- 
ple," as  the  old  rhyme  has  it.  What  then  of  the 
services?  That  they  are  interminable  we  know. 
The  tithing-man  or  clerk  may  turn  the  brass- 
bound  hourglass  by  the  side  of  the  pulpit  two 
and  three  times  during  the  sermon,  and  once 
or  twice  during  the  prayer.  Interminable,  and, 
also,  to  the  modern  Sunday  observer,  unen- 
durable. How  many  of  us  of  this  softer  age  can 
contemplate  without  a  shiver  the  vision  of 
people  sitting  hour  after  hour  in  an  absolutely 
unheated  building?  (The  Old  Ship  was  not 
heated  until  1822.)  The  only  relief  from  the 
chill  and  stiffness  comes  during  the  prayer 
when  the  congregation  stands:  kneeling,  of 
course,  would  savor  too  strongly  of  idolatry 
and  the  Church  of  Rome.  They  stand,  too, 
while  the  psalms  and  hymns  are  lined  out,  and 


ECCLESIASTICAL  HINGHAM      81 

as  they  sing  them,  very  uncertainly  and  very 
incorrectly.  This  performance  alone  sometimes 
takes  an  hour,  as  there  is  no  organ,  nor  notes, 
and  only  a  few  copies  of  the  Bay  Psalm  Book, 
of  which,  by  the  way,  a  copy  now  would  be 
worth  many  times  its  weight  in  gold. 

After  the  morning  service  there  is  a  noon 
intermission,  in  which  the  half -frozen  con- 
gregation stirs  around,  eats  cold  luncheons 
brought  in  baskets,  and  then  returns  to  the 
next  session.  One  must  not  for  an  instant, 
however,  consider  these  noon  hours  as  recre- 
ational. There  is  no  idle  talk  or  play.  The  ser- 
mon is  discussed  and  the  children  forbidden 
to  romp  or  laugh.  One  sometimes  wonders  how 
the  little  things  had  any  impulse  to  laugh  in 
such  an  abysmal  atmosphere,  but  apparently 
the  Puritan  boys  and  girls  were  entirely  nor- 
mal and  even  wholesomely  mischievous  —  as 
proved  by  the  constantly  required  services  of 
the  tithing-man. 

These  external  trappings  of  the  service  sound 
depressing  enough,  but  if  the  message  received 
within  these  chilly  walls  is  cheering,  maybe  we 


82          THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

can  forget  or  ignore  the  physical  discomforts. 
But  is  the  message  cheering?  Hell,  damnation, 
eternal  tortures,  painful  theological  hair-split- 
tings, harrowing  self -examinations,  and  humil- 
iating public  confessions  —  this  is  what  they 
gather  on  the  narrow  wooden  benches  to  listen 
to  hour  after  hour,  searching  their  souls  for  sin 
with  an  almost  frenzied  eagerness.  And  yet, 
forlorn  and  tedious  as  the  bleak  service  appears 
to  us,  there  is  no  doubt  that  these  stern-faced 
men  and  women  wrenched  an  almost  mystical 
inspiration  from  it;  that  a  weird  fascination 
emanated  from  this  morbid  dwelling  on  sin 
and  punishment,  appealing  to  the  emotions 
quite  as  vividly  —  although  through  a  differ- 
ent channel  —  as  the  most  elaborate  cere- 
monial. When  the  soul  is  wrought  to  a  certain 
pitch  each  hardship  is  merely  an  added  oppor- 
tunity to  prove  its  faith.  It  was  this  high 
pitch,  attained  and  sustained  by  our  Puritan 
fathers,  which  produced  a  dramatic  and  some- 
times terrible  blend  of  personality. 

It  has  become  the  modern  fashion  somewhat 
to  belittle  Puritanism.  It  is  easy  to  emphasize 


ECCLESIASTICAL  HINGHAM      83 

its  absurdities,  to  ridicule  the  almost  fanatical 
fervor  which  goaded  men  to  harshness  and  in- 
consistency. The  fact  remains  that  a  tremen- 
dous selective  force  was  needed  to  tear  the 
Puritans  away  from  the  mother  church  and 
the  mother  country  and  fortify  them  in  their 
struggle  in  a  new  land.  It  was  religious  zeal 
which  furnished  this  motive  power.  Different 
implements  and  differently  directed  force  are 
needed  to  extract  the  diamond  from  the  earth, 
from  the  implements  and  force  needed  to 
polish  and  cut  the  same  diamond.  So  different 
phases  of  religious  development  are  called 
forth  by  progressive  phases  of  development. 
It  has  been  said  about  the  New  England  con- 
science: "It  fostered  a  condition  of  life  and 
type  of  character  doubtless  never  again  pos- 
sible in  the  world's  history.  Having  done  its 
work,  having  founded  soundly  and  peopled 
strongly  an  exceptional  region,  the  New  Eng- 
land conscience  had  no  further  necessity  for 
being.  Those  whom  it  now  tortures  with  its 
hot  pincers  of  doubt  and  self-reproach  are 
sacrificed  to  a  cause  long  since  won/' 


84  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

The  Puritans  themselves  grew  away  from 
many  of  their  excessive  severities.  But  as 
they  gained  bodily  strength  from  their  conflict 
with  the  elements,  so  they  gained  a  certain 
moral  stamina  by  their  self-imposed  religious 
observance.  And  this  moral  stamina  has 
marked  New  England  ever  since,  and  marked 
her  to  her  glory. 

One  cannot  speak  of  Hingham  churches  — 
indeed,  one  cannot  speak  of  Hingham  —  with- 
out admiring  mention  of  the  New  North 
Church.  This  building,  of  exquisite  propor- 
tions and  finish,  within  and  without,  built  by 
Bulfinch  in  1806,  is  one  of  the  most  flawless 
examples  of  its  type  on  the  South  Shore.  You 
will  appreciate  the  cream-colored  paint,  the 
buff  walls,  the  quaint  box  pews  of  oiled  wood, 
with  handrails  gleaming  from  the  touch  of 
many  generations,  with  wooden  buttons  and 
protruding  hinges  proclaiming  an  ancient 
fashion;  but  the  unique  feature  of  the  New 
North  Church  is  its  slave  galleries.  These  two 
small  galleries,  between  the  roof  and  the  choir 
loft,  held  for  thirty  years,  in  diminishing  num- 


ECCLESIASTICAL  HINGHAM      85 

bers,  negroes  and  Indians.  The  last  occupant 
was  a  black  Lucretia,  who,  after  being  freed, 
was  invited  to  sit  downstairs  with  her  master 
and  mistress,  which  she  did,  and  which  she 
continued  to  do  until  her  death,  not  so  very 
long  ago. 

Hingham,  its  Main  Street  —  alas  for  the 
original  name  of  "Bachelors  Howe"  —  arched 
by  a  double  row  of  superb  elms  on  either  side, 
is  incalculably  rich  in  old  houses,  old  tra- 
ditions, old  families.  Even  motoring  through, 
too  quickly  as  motorists  must,  one  cannot  help 
being  struck  by  the  substantial  dignity  of  the 
place,  by  the  well-kept  prosperity  of  the  houses, 
large  and  small,  which  fringe  the  fine  old  high- 
way. Ever  since  the  days  when  the  three 
Misses  Barker  kept  loyal  to  George  IV,  claim- 
ing the  King  as  their  liege  lord  fifty  years  after 
the  Declaration  of  Independence,  the  town  has 
preserved  a  Cranford-like  charm.  And  why 
not,  when  the  very  house  is  still  handsomely 
preserved,  where  the  nameless  nobleman, 
Francis  Le  Baron,  was  concealed  between  the 
floors,  and,  as  we  are  told  in  Mrs.  Austen's 


86  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

novel,  very  properly  capped  the  climax  by 
marrying  his  brave  little  protector,  Molly 
Wilder?  Why  not,  when  the  Lincoln  family, 
ancestors  of  Abraham,  has  been  identified 
with  the  town  since  its  settlement?  The  house 
of  Major-General  Benjamin  Lincoln,  who  re- 
ceived the  sword  of  Cornwallis  at  Yorktown, 
is  still  occupied  by  his  descendants,  its  neat 
fence,  many  windows,  two  chimneys,  and  its 
two  stories  and  a  half  proclaiming  it  a  dwell- 
ing of  repute.  Near  by,  descendants  of  Samuel 
Lincoln,  the  ancestor  of  Abraham,  occupy  part 
of  another  roomy  ancient  homestead.  The 
Wampatuck  Club,  named  after  the  Indian 
chief  who  granted  the  original  deeds  of  the 
town,  has  found  quarters  in  an  extremely  in- 
teresting house  dating  from  1680.  In  the 
spacious  living-room  are  seventeen  panels,  on 
the  walls  and  in  the  doors,  painted  with  charm- 
ing old-fashioned  skill  by  John  Hazlitt,  the 
brother  of  the  English  essayist.  The  Reverend 
Daniel  Shute  house,  built  in  1746,  is  practi- 
cally intact  with  its  paneled  rooms  and  wall- 
paper a  hundred  years  old.  Hingham's  famous 


ECCLESIASTICAL  HINGHAM      87 

elms  shade  the  house  where  Parson  Ebenezer 
Gay  lived  out  his  long  pastorate  of  sixty -nine 
years  and  nine  months,  and  the  Garrison 
house,  built  before  1640,  sheltered,  in  its 
prime,  nine  generations  of  the  same  family. 
The  Rainbow  Roof  house,  so  called  from  the 
delicious  curve  in  its  roof,  is  one  of  Hingham's 
prettiest  two-hundred-year-old  cottages,  and 
Miss  Susan  B.  Willard's  cottage  is  one  of  the 
oldest  in  the  United  States.  Derby  Academy, 
founded  almost  two  centuries  and  a  half  ago 
by  Madam  Derby,  still  maintains  its  social  and 
scholarly  prestige  through  all  the  educational 
turmoil  of  the  twentieth  century.  One  likes 
to  associate  Hingham  with  Massachusetts's 
stanch  and  sturdy"  war  governor,"  for  it  was 
here  that  John  Albion  Andrew,  who  proved 
himself  so  truly  one  of  our  great  men  during 
the  Civil  War,  courted  Eliza  Jones  Hersey, 
and  here  that  the  happy  years  of  their  early 
married  life  were  spent.  Later,  another  gov- 
ernor, John  D.  Long,  was  for  many  years  a 
mighty  figure  in  the  town. 

With  its  ancient  churches  and  institutions, 


88  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

its  pensive  graveyards  and  lovely  elms,  its 
ancestral  houses  and  hidden  gardens,  Hingham 
typifies  what  is  quaintest  and  best  in  New  Eng- 
land towns.  Possibly  the  dappling  of  the  elms, 
possibly  the  shadow  of  the  Old  Ship  Church, 
is  a  bit  deeper  here  than  in  the  other  South 
Shore  towns.  However  it  may  seem  to  its  in- 
habitants, to  the  stranger  everything  in  Hing- 
ham is  tinctured  by  the  remembrance  of  the 
stern  old  ecclesiasticism.  Even  the  number  of 
historic  forts  seems  a  proper  part  of  those 
righteous  days,  for  when  did  religion  and  war- 
fare not  go  hand  in  hand?  During  the  trouble 
with  King  Philip  the  town  had  three  forts,  one 
at  Fort  Hill,  one  at  the  Cemetery,  and  one  "on 
the  plain  about  a  mile  from  the  harbor";  and 
the  sites  may  still  be  identified. 

Not  that  Hingham  history  is  exclusively 
religious  or  martial.  Her  little  harbor  once 
held  seventy  sail  of  fishing  vessels,  and  be- 
tween 1815  and  1826,  165,000  barrels  of  mack- 
erel were  landed  on  their  salty  decks.  For  fifty 
years  (between  1811  and  1860)  the  Rapid 
sailed  as  a  packet  between  this  town  and  Bos- 


ECCLESIASTICAL  HINGHAM      89 

ton,  making  the  trip  on  one  memorable  occa- 
sion in  sixty -seven  minutes.  We  read  that  in 
the  War  of  1812  she  was  carried  up  the  Wey- 
mouth  River  and  covered,  masts  and  hull, 
with  green  bushes  so  that  the  marauding 
British  cruisers  might  not  find  her,  and  as 
we  read  we  find  ourselves  remembering  that 
camouflage  is  new  only  in  name. 

How  entirely  fitting  it  seems  that  a  town  of 
such  venerable  houses  and  venerable  legends 
should  be  presided  over  by  a  church  which  is 
the  oldest  of  its  kind  in  the  country! 

Hingham  changes.  There  is  a  Roman  Catho- 
lic Church  in  the  very  heart  of  that  one-time 
Puritan  stronghold:  the  New  North  is  Unita- 
rian, and  Episcopalians,  Baptists,  and  Second 
Adventists  have  settled  down  comfortably 
where  once  they  would  have  been  run  out  of 
town.  Poor  old  Puritans,  how  grieved  and 
scandalized  they  would  be  to  stand,  as  we  are 
standing  now,  and  watch  the  procession  of 
passing  automobilists !  Would  it  seem  all  lost 
to  them,  we  wonder,  the  religious  ideal  for 
which  they  struggled,  or  would  they  realize 


90  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

that  their  sowing  had  brought  forth  richer 
fruit  than  they  could  guess?  It  has  all  changed, 
since  Puritan  days,  and  yet,  perhaps,  in  no 
other  place  in  New  England  does  the  hand  of 
the  past  lie  so  visibly  upon  the  community. 
You  cannot  lift  your  eyes  but  they  rest  upon 
some  building  raised  two  centuries  and  more 
ago;  the  shade  which  ripples  under  your  feet 
is  cast  by  elms  planted  by  that  very  hand  of 
the  past.  Even  your  voice  repeats  the  words 
which  those  old  patriarchs,  well  versed  in 
Biblical  lore,  chose  for  their  neighborhood 
names.  Accord  Pond  and  Glad  Tidings  Plain 
might  have  been  lifted  from  some  Pilgrim's 
Progress,  while  the  near-by  Sea  of  Galilee  and 
Jerusalem  Road  are  from  the  Good  Book 
itself. 

"Which  way  to  Egypt?"  Is  this  an  echo 
from  that  time  when  the  Bible  was  the  cor- 
nerstone of  Church  and  State,  of  home  and 
school? 

"What's  the  best  road  to  Jericho  Beach?" 
Surely  it  is  some  grave-faced  shade  who  calls: 
or  is  it  a  peal  from  the  chimes  in  the  Memorial 


ECCLESIASTICAL  HINGHAM      91 

Bell  Tower  —  chimes  reminiscent  of  old  Hing- 
ham,  in  England?  No,  it  is  only  the  shouted 
question  of  the  motorist,  gay  and  prosperous, 
flying  on  his  Sunday  holiday  through  ancient 
Hingham  town. 


CHAPTER  VI 

COHASSET  LEDGES  AND  MARSHES  * 

A  SICKLE-SHAPED  shore  — wild,  su- 
perb !  Tawny  ledges  tumbling  out  to  sea, 
rearing  massive  heads  to  search,  across  three 
thousand  miles  of  water,  for  another  shore.  For 
it  is  Spain  and  Portugal  which  lie  directly  yon- 
der, and  the  same  tumultuous  sea  that  crashes 
and  swirls  against  Cohasset's  crags  laps  also 
on  those  sunnier,  warmer  sands. 

Back  inland,  from  the  bold  brown  coast 
which  gives  Cohasset  her  Riviera-like  fame, 
lie  marshes,  liquefying  into  mirrors  at  high 
tide,  melting  into  lush  green  at  low  tide. 

1  For  much  of  this  .chapter  I  am  indebted  to  my  friend 
Alice  C.  Hyde. 


COHASSET  LEDGES  93 

Between  the  ledges  and  the  marshes  winds 
Jerusalem  Road,  bearing  a  continual  stream 
of  sight-seers  and  fringed  with  estates  hidden 
from  the  sight-seers;  estates  with  terraces 
dashed  by  spindrift,  with  curving  stairways 
hewn  in  sheer  rock  down  to  the  water,  with 
wind-twisted  savins,  and  flowers  whose  bright 
bloom  is  heightened  by  the  tang  of  salt.  For 
too  many  a  passing  traveler  Cohasset  is  known 
only  as  the  most  fashionable  resort  on  the 
South  Shore.  But  Cohasset's  story  is  a  longer 
one  than  that,  and  far  more  profound. 

Cohasset  is  founded  upon  a  rock,  and  the 
making  of  that  rock  is  so  honestly  and  minutely 
recorded  by  nature  that  even  those  who  take 
alarm  at  the  word  "geology"  may  read  this 
record  with  ease.  These  rocky  ledges  that  stare 
so  proudly  across  the  sea  underlie,  also,  every 
inch  of  soil,  and  are  of  the  same  kind  every- 
where —  granite.  Granite  is  a  rock  which  is 
formed  under  immense  pressure  and  in  the 
presence  of  confined  moisture,  needing  a  weight 
of  fifteen  thousand  pounds  upon  every  inch. 
Therefore,  wherever  granite  is  found  we  know 


94  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

that  it  has  not  been  formed  by  deposit,  like 
limestone  and  sandstone  and  slate  and  other 
sedimentary  rocks,  but  at  a  prodigious  depth 
under  the  solid  ground,  and  by  slow  crystal- 
lizing of  molten  substances.  There  must  have 
been  from  two  to  five  miles  of  other  rock 
lying  upon  the  stuff  that  crystallized  into 
granite.  A  wrinkling  in  the  skin  of  the  earth 
exposed  the  granite,  a  wrinkling  so  gradual 
that  doubtless  if  generations  of  men  had  lived 
on  top  of  the  wrinkle  they  would  have  sworn 
it  did  not  move.  But  move  it  did,  and  the 
superimposed  rock  must  have  been  worn  off 
at  a  rate  of  less  than  a  hundredth  part  of  an 
inch  every  year  in  order  to  lose  two  or  three 
miles  of  it  in  twenty-five  million  years.  As  the 
granite  was  wrinkled  up  by  the  movement  of 
the  earth's  crust,  certain  cracks  opened  and 
filled  with  lava,  forming  dikes.  The  geologist 
to-day  can  glance  at  these  dikes  and  tell  the 
period  of  their  formation  as  casually  as  a 
jockey  looking  at  a  horse's  mouth  can  tell  his 
age.  He  could  also  tell  of  the  "faulting,"  or 
slipping  down,  of  adjacent  masses  of  solid 


COHASSET  LEDGES  95 

rock,  which  has  occurred  often  enough  to  carve 
the  characteristic  Cohasset  coast. 

The  making  of  the  rock  bottom  is  a  story 
which  extends  over  millions  of  years :  the  mak- 
ing of  the  soil  extends  over  thousands.  The 
gigantic  glacier  which  once  formed  all  over 
the  northern  part  of  North  America,  and  which 
remained  upon  it  most  of  the  time  until  about 
seven  thousand  years  ago,  ground  up  the  rock 
like  a  huge  mill  and  heaped  its  grist  into  hills 
and  plains  and  meadows.  The  marks  of  it  are 
as  easy  to  see  as  finger  prints  in  putty.  There 
are  scratches  on  the  underlying  rock  in  every 
part  of  the  town,  pointing  in  the  southerly 
direction  in  which  the  glacier  moved.  The 
gravel  and  clay  belts  of  the  town  have  all 
been  stretched  out  in  the  same  direction  as 
the  scratches,  and  many  are  the  boulders  which 
were  combed  out  of  the  moving  glacier  by  the 
peaks  of  the  ledges,  and  are  now  poised,  like 
the  famous  Tipping  Rock,  just  where  the 
glacier  left  them  when  it  melted.  Few  towns 
in  America  possess  greater  geological  interest 
or  a  wider  variety  of  glacial  phenomena  than 


96  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

Cohasset  —  all  of  which  may  be  studied  more 
fully  with  the  aid  of  E.  Victor  Bigelow's  "Nar- 
rative History  of  the  Town  of  Cohasset,  Mas- 
sachusetts," and  William  O.  Crosby's  "Geol- 
ogy of  the  Boston  Basin." 

This,  then,  is  briefly  the  first  part  of  Co- 
hasset's  ledges.  The  second  part  deals  with 
human  events,  including  many  shipwrecks  and 
disasters,  and  more  than  one  romantic  episode. 
Perhaps  this  human  section  is  best  begun 
with  Captain  John  Smith. 

Captain  John  Smith  was  born  too  early.  If 
ever  a  hero  was  brought  into  the  world  to 
adorn  the  moving-picture  screen,  that  hero  of 
the  "iron  collar,"  of  piratical  capture,  of  wed- 
lock with  an  Indian  princess,  was  the  man. 
Failing  of  this  high  calling  he  did  some  service- 
able work  in  discovering  and  describing  many 
of  the  inlets  on  the  coast  of  New  England. 
Among  these  inlets  Cohasset  acted  her  part  as 
hostess  to  the  famous  navigator  and  staged  a 
small  and  vivid  encounter  with  the  aborigines. 
The  date  of  this  presentation  was  in  1614;  the 
scenario  may  be  found  in  Smith's  own  diary. 


COHASSET  LEDGES  97 

Smith  and  a  party  of  eight  or  more  sailors 
made  the  trip  between  the  ledges  in  a  small 
rowboat.  It  is  believed  that  they  landed  some- 
where near  Hominy  Point.  Their  landing  was 
not  carried  out  without  some  misadventure, 
however,  for  in  some  way  this  party  of  ex- 
plorers angered  the  Indians  with  whom  they 
came  in  contact,  and  the  result  was  an  attack 
from  bow  and  arrow.  The  town  of  Cohasset, 
in  commemorating  this  encounter  by  a  tablet, 
has  inscribed  upon  the  tablet  Smith's  own 
words: 

"We  found  the  people  on  those  parts  very 
kind,  but  in  their  fury  no  less  valiant:  and  at 
Quonhaset  falling  out  there  with  but  one  of 
them,  he  with  three  others  crossed  the  harbour 
in  a  cannow  to  certain  rocks  whereby  we  must 
pass,  and  there  let  flie  their  arrowes  for  our 
shot,  till  we  were  out  of  danger,  yet  one  of 
them  was  slaine,  and  the  other  shot  through 
the  thigh." 

History  follows  fast  along  the  ledges:  history 
of  gallant  deeds  and  gallant  defense  during  the 
days  of  the  Revolution  and  the  War  of  1812; 


98  THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

deeds  of  disaster  along  the  coast  and  one  es- 
pecial deed  of  great  engineering  skill. 

The  beauty  and  the  tragedy  of  Cohasset  are 
caught  in  large  measure  upon  these  jagged 
rocks.  The  splinters  and  wrecks  of  two  and  a 
half  centuries  have  strewn  the  beaches,  and 
many  a  corpse,  far  from  its  native  land,  has 
been  found,  wrapped  in  a  shroud  of  seaweed 
upon  the  sand,  and  has  been  lowered  by  alien 
hands  into  a  forever  unmarked  grave.  Quite 
naturally  the  business  of  "wrecking" — that 
is,  saving  the  pieces  —  came  to  be  the  trade 
of  a  number  of  Cohasset  citizens,  and  so  ex- 
pert did  Cohasset  divers  and  seamen  become 
that  they  were  in  demand  all  over  the  world. 
One  of  the  most  interesting  salvage  enter- 
prises concerned  a  Spanish  frigate,  sunk  off 
the  coast  of  Venezuela.  Many  thousand  dollars 
in  silver  coin  were  covered  by  fifty  feet  of 
water,  and  it  was  Captain  Tower,  of  Co- 
hasset, with  a  crew  of  Cohasset  divers  and 
seamen,  who  set  sail  for  the  spot  in  a  schooner 
bearing  the  substantial  name  of  Eliza  Ann. 
The  Spanish  Government,  having  no  faith  in 


COHASSET  LEDGES  99 

the  enterprise,  agreed  to  claim  only  two  and 
one  half  per  cent  of  what  was  removed.  The 
first  year  the  wreckers  got  fourteen  thousand 
dollars,  and  the  second  they  had  reached  seven 
thousand,  when  the  Spaniards  became  so 
jealous  of  their  skill  that  they  had  to  flee  for 
their  lives  (taking  the  seven  thousand,  how- 
ever). The  clumsy  diving-bell  method  was  the 
only  one  known  at  that  time,  but  when, 
twenty  years  later,  the  Spaniards  had  to 
swallow  their  chagrin  and  send  again  for  the 
same  wrecking  party  to  assist  them  on  the 
same  task,  modern  diving  suits  were  in  use  and 
more  money  was  recovered  —  no  mean  tri- 
umph for  the  crew  of  the  Eliza  Ann ! 

As  the  wrecks  along  the  Cohasset  coast  were 
principally  caused  by  the  dangerous  reefs 
spreading  in  either  direction  from  what  is 
known  as  Minot's  Ledge,  the  necessity  of  a 
lighthouse  on  that  spot  was  early  evident,  and 
the  erecting  of  the  present  Minot's  Light  is 
one  of  the  most  romantic  engineering  enter- 
prises of  our  coast  history.  The  original  struc- 
ture was  snapped  off  like  a  pikestaff  in  the 


100         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

great  storm  of  1851,  and  the  present  one  of 
Quincy  granite  is  the  first  of  its  kind  in  Amer- 
ica to  be  built  on  a  ledge  awash  at  high  tide 
and  with  no  adjacent  dry  land.  The  tre- 
mendous difficulties  were  finally  overcome,  al- 
though in  the  year  1855  the  work  could  be 
pursued  for  only  a  hundred  and  thirty  hours, 
and  the  following  year  for  only  a  hundred  and 
fifty-seven.  To  read  of  the  erection  of  this 
remarkable  lighthouse  reminds  one  of  the 
building  of  Solomon's  temple.  The  stone  was 
selected  with  the  utmost  care,  and  the  Quincy 
cutters  declared  that  such  chiseling  had  never 
before  left  the  hand  of  man.  Then  every  single 
block  for  the  lower  portion  was  meticulously 
cut,  dovetailed,  and  set  in  position  on  Govern- 
ment Island  in  Cohasset  Harbor.  The  old  base, 
exquisitely  laid,  where  they  were  thus  set  up  is 
still  visible,  as  smooth  as  a  billiard  table,  al- 
though grass-covered.  In  addition  to  the  flaw- 
less cutting  and  joining  of  the  blocks,  the  ledge 
itself  was  cut  into  a  succession  of  levels  suitable 
to  bear  a  stone  foundation  —  work  which  was 
possible  only  at  certain  times  of  the  tide  and 


COHASSET  LEDGES  101 

seasons  of  the  year.  The  cutting  of  each  stoner  ' 
so  that  it  exactly  fitted  its  neighbor,  above, 
below,  and  at  either  side,  and  precisely  con- 
formed to  the  next  inner  row  upon  the  same 
level,  was  nothing  short  of  a  marvel.  A  min- 
iature of  the  light  —  the  building  of  which 
took  two  winters,  and  which  was  on  the  scale 
of  an  inch  to  a  foot  —  was  in  the  United  States 
Government  Building  at  the  Chicago  Expo- 
sition, and  is  stone  for  stone  a  counterpart  of 
the  granite  tower  in  the  Atlantic.  Although 
this  is  an  achievement  which  belongs  in  a 
sense  to  the  whole  United  States,  yet  it  must 
always  seem,  to  those  who  followed  it  most 
closely,  as  belonging  peculiarly  to  Cohasset. 
A  famous  Cohasset  rigger  made  the  model  for 
the  derrick  which  was  used  to  raise  the  stones; 
the  massive  granite  blocks  were  teamed  by 
one  whose  proud  boast  it  was  that  he  had 
never  had  occasion  to  shift  a  stone  twice;  a 
Cohasset  man  captained  the  first  vessel  to 
carry  the  stone  to  the  ledge,  and  another  as- 
sisted in  the  selection  of  the  stone. 

It  is  difficult  to  turn  one's  eyes  away  from 


102         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

the  spectacular  beauty  of  the  Cohasset  shore, 
but  magnificent  as  these  ledges  are,  and  glit- 
tering with  infinite  romance,  yet,  rather  curi- 
ously, it  is  on  the  limpid  surface  of  the  marshes 
that  we  read  the  most  significant  episodes  of 
Colonial  and  pioneer  life. 

One  of  the  needs  which  the  early  settlers 
were  quick  to  feel  was  open  land  which  would 
serve  as  pasturage  for  their  cattle.  With  forests 
pressing  down  upon  them  from  the  rear,  and 
a  barrier  of  granite  in  front  of  them,  the  prob- 
lem of  grazing-lands  was  important.  The 
Hingham  settlement  at  Bare  Cove  (Cohasset 
was  part  of  Hingham  originally)  found  the 
solution  in  the  acres  of  open  marshland  which 
stretched  to  the  east.  Cohasset  to-day  may 
ask  where  so  much  grazing-land  lay  within  her 
borders.  By  comparison  with  the  old  maps  and 
surveying  figures,  we  find  that  many  acres, 
now  covered  with  the  water  of  Little  Harbor 
and  lying  within  the  sandbar  at  Pleasant 
Beach,  are  counted  as  old  grazing-lands.  These, 
with  the  sweep  of  what  is  now  the  "Glades," 
furnished  abundant  pasturage  for  neighboring 


COHASSET  LEDGES  103 

cattle  and  brought  the  Hingham  settlers 
quickly  to  Cohasset  meadows.  Thus  it  happens 
that  the  first  history  of  Cohasset  is  the  history 
of  this  common  pasturage  —  "Commons,"  as 
it  was  known  in  the  old  histories.  Although 
Hingham  was  early  divided  up  among  the 
pioneers,  the  marshes  were  kept  undivided  for 
the  use  of  the  whole  settlement.  As  a  record  of 
1650  puts  it:  "It  was  ordered  that  any  towns- 
man shall  have  the  liberty  to  put  swine  to 
Conohasset  without  yokes  or  rings,  upon  the 
town's  common  land." 

But  the  Massachusetts  Bay  Colony  was 
hard-headed  as  well  as  pious,  and  several  naive 
hints  creep  into  the  early  records  of  sharers  of 
the  Commons  who  were  shrewdly  eyeing  the 
salt  land  of  Cohasset.  A  real  estate  transfer  of 
1640  has  this  potential  flavor:  "Half  the  lot  at 
Conehasset,  if  any  fall  by  lot,  and  half  the 
commons  which  belong  to  said  lot."  And  again, 
four  years  later,  Henry  Tuttle  sold  to  John 
Fearing  "what  right  he  had  to  the  Division  of 
Conihassett  Meadows."  The  first  land  to  come 
under  the  measuring  chain  and  wooden  stake 


104         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

of  surveyors  was  about  the  margin  of  Little 
Harbor  about  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  After  that  the  rest  of  the  township 
was  not  long  in  being  parceled  out.  One  of  the 
curious  methods  of  land  division  was  in  the 
Beechwood  district.  The  apportionment  seems 
to  have  had  the  characteristics  of  ribbon  cake. 
Sections  of  differing  desirability  —  to  meet 
the  demands  of  justice  and  natural  conditions 
—  were  measured  out  in  long  strips,  a  mile 
long  and  twenty-five  feet  wide.  Many  an  old 
stone  wall  marking  this  early  grant  is  still  to 
be  seen  in  the  woods.  Could  anything  but  the 
indomitable  spirit  of  those  English  settlers  and 
the  strong  feeling  for  land  ownership  have 
built  walls  of  carted  stone  about  enclosures  a 
mile  long  and  twenty-five  feet  wide? 

Having  effected  a  division  of  land  in  Co- 
hasset,  families  soon  began  to  settle  away 
from  the  mother  town  of  Hingham,  and  after 
a  prolonged  period  of  government  at  arm's 
length,  with  all  its  attendant  discomforts,  the 
long,  bitter  struggle  resolved  itself  into  Co- 
hasset's  final  separation  from  Hingham,  and 


COHASSET  LEDGES  105 

its  development  from  a  precinct  into  an  inde- 
pendent township. 

While  the  marshes  to  the  north  were  the 
cause  of  Cohasset  being  first  visited,  settled, 
and  made  into  a  township,  yet  the  marshes  to 
the  south  hold  an  even  more  vital  historical 
interest.  These  southern  marshes,  bordering 
Bound  Brook  and  stretching  away  to  Bassing 
Beach,  were  visited  by  haymakers  as  were 
those  to  the  north.  But  these  haymakers  did 
not  come  from  the  same  township,  nor  were 
they  under  the  same  local  government.  The 
obscure  little  stream  which  to-day  lies  be- 
tween Scituate  Harbor  and  Cohasset  marks 
the  line  of  two  conflicting  grants  —  the  Ply- 
mouth Colony  and  the  Massachusetts  Bay 
Colony. 

In  the  early  days  of  New  England  royal 
grants  from  the  throne  or  patents  from  colo- 
nial councils  in  London  were  deemed  necessary 
before  settling  in  the  wilderness.  The  strong, 
inherited  respect  for  landed  estates  must  have 
given  such  charters  their  value,  as  it  is  hard  for 
us  to  see  now  how  any  one  in  England  could 


106         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

have  prevented  the  pioneers  from  settling 
where  they  pleased.  The  various  patents  and 
grants  of  the  two  colonies  (indefinite  as  they 
seem  to  us  now,  as  some  granted  "up  to"  a 
hundred  acres  to  each  emigrant  without  de- 
fining any  boundaries)  brought  the  two  colo- 
nies face  to  face  at  Bound  Brook.  The  re- 
sult was  a  dispute  over  the  harvesting  of  salt 
hay. 

All  boundary  streams  attract  to  themselves 
a  certain  amount  of  fame  —  the  Rio  Grande, 
the  Saint  Lawrence,  and  the  Rhine.  But  surely 
the  little  stream  of  Bound  Brook,  which  was 
finally  taken  as  the  line  of  division  between 
two  colonies  of  such  historical  importance  as 
the  Plymouth  and  the  Massachusetts  Bay,  is 
worth  more  than  a  superficial  attention.  The 
dispute  lasted  many  years  and  occasioned  the 
appointing  of  numerous  commissioners  from 
both  sides.  That  the  salt  grass  of  Bassing 
Beach  should  have  assumed  such  importance 
reveals  again  the  sensitiveness  to  land  values 
of  men  who  had  so  recently  left  England.  The 
settling  of  the  dispute  was  not  referred  back  to 


COHASSET  LEDGES  107 

England,  but  was  settled  by  the  colonists 
themselves. 

The  author  of  the  "Narrative  History  of 
Cohasset"  calls  this  an  event  of  only  less 
historical  importance  than  that  of  the  pact 
drawn  up  in  the  cabin  of  the  Mayflower.  He 
declares  that  the  confederation  of  states  had 
its  inception  there,  and  adds:  "The  appoint- 
ment for  this  joint  commission  for  the  settle- 
ment of  this  intercolonial  difficulty  was  the 
first  step  of  federation  that  culminated  in  the 
Colonial  Congress  and  then  blossomed  into 
the  United  States."  We  to-day,  to  whom  the 
salt  grass  of  Cohasset  is  little  more  than  a 
fringe  about  the  two  harbors,  may  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  agree  fully  with  such  a  sweeping  state- 
ment, but  certainly  this  spot  and  boundary 
line  should  always  be  associated  with  the  re- 
spect for  property  which  has  ennobled  the 
Anglo-Saxon  race. 

Between  the  marshes,  which  were  of  such 
high  importance  in  those  early  days,  and  the 
ledges  which  have  been  the  cause  and  the  scene 
of  so  many  Cohasset  adventures,  twists  Jeru- 


108         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

salem  Road,  the  brilliant  beauty  of  which  has 
been  so  often  —  but  never  too  often  —  re- 
marked. This  was  the  main  road  from  Hing- 
ham  for  many  years,  and  it  took  full  three 
hours  of  barbarous  jolting  in  two-wheeled, 
springless  ox  carts  to  make  the  trip.  Even  if  a 
man  had  a  horse  the  journey  was  cruelly  tedi- 
ous, for  there  were  only  a  few  stretches  where 
the  horse  could  go  faster  than  a  walk  —  and 
the  way  was  pock-marked  with  boulders  and 
mudholes.  With  no  stage-coach  before  1815, 
and  being  off  the  highway  between  Plymouth 
and  Boston,  it  is  small  wonder  that  the  early 
Cohasset  folk  either  walked  or  went  by  sea  to 
Hingham  and  thence  to  Boston. 

It  has  been  suggested  that  the  "keeper  of 
young  cattle  at  Coneyhassett,"  who  drove  his 
herd  over  from  Hingham,  was  moved  either 
by  piety  or  sarcasm  to  give  the  trail  its  present 
arresting  name.  However,  as  the  herdsman  did 
not  take  this  route,  but  the  back  road  through 
Turkey  Meadows,  it  is  more  probable  that 
some  visitors,  who  detected  a  resemblance  be- 
tween this  section  of  the  country  and  the  Holy 


COHASSET  LEDGES  109 

Land,  were  responsible  for  the  christening  of 
this  road  and  also  of  the  Sea  of  Galilee  —  which 
last  has  almost  dropped  into  disuse.  There 
does  not  seem  to  be  any  particular  suggestion 
of  the  land  of  the  Pharaohs  and  present-day 
Egypt,  but  tradition  explains  that  as  follows: 
Old  Squire  Perce  had  accumulated  a  store  of 
grain  in  case  of  drought,  and  when  the  drought 
came  and  the  men  hurried  to  him  to  buy  corn, 
he  greeted  them  with  "Well,  boys,  so  you've 
come  down  to  Egypt  to  buy  corn."  Another 
proof,  if  one  were  needed,  of  the  Biblical 
familiarity  of  those  days. 

It  is  hard  to  stop  writing  about  Cohasset. 
There  are  so  many  bits  of  history  tucked  into 
every  ledge  and  cranny  of  her  shore.  The  green 
in  front  of  the  old  white  meeting-house  —  one 
of  the  prettiest  and  most  perfect  meeting- 
houses on  the  South  Shore  —  has  been  pressed 
by  the  feet  of  men  assembling  for  six  wars.  It 
makes  Cohasset  seem  venerable,  indeed,  when 
one  thinks  of  the  march  of  American  history. 
But  to  the  tawny  ledges,  tumbling  out  to  sea, 
these  three  hundred  years  are  as  but  a  day;  for 


110         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

the  story  of  the  stones,  like  the  story  of  the 
stars,  is  measured  in  terms  of  milliards.  To  such 
immemorial  keepers  of  the  coast  the  life  of  man 
is  a  brief  tale  that  is  soon  told,  and  fades  as 
swiftly  as  the  fading  leaf. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  SCITUATE  SHORE 

SCITUATE  is  different:  different  from 
Cohasset,  with  its  superbly  bold  coast  and 
its  fashionable  folk;  different  from  Hingham, 
with  its  air  of  settled  inland  dignity.  Scituate 
has  a  quaintness,  a  casualness,  the  indescrib- 
able air  of  a  land's-end  spot.  The  fine  houses 
in  Scituate  are  refreshingly  free  from  preten- 
sion; the  winds  that  have  twisted  the  trees  into 
Rackham-like  grotesques  have  blown  away 
falsity  and  formality. 

Scituate  life  has  always  been  along  the  shore. 
It  is  from  the  shore  that  coot-shooting  used  to 


112         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

furnish  a  livelihood  to  many  a  Scituate  man, 
and  still  lures  the  huntsmen  in  the  fine  fall 
weather.  It  is  the  peculiar  formation  of  the 
shore  which  has  developed  a  small,  clinker- 
built  boat,  and  made  the  town  famous  for  day 
fishing.  It  is  along  the  shore  that  the  unique 
and  picturesque  mossing  industry  is  still  car- 
ried on,  and  along  the  shore  that  the  well- 
known  colony  of  literary  folk  have  settled. 

Scituate's  history  is  really  a  fishing  history, 
for  as  early  as  1633  a  fishing  station  was  estab- 
lished here,  and  in  course  of  time  the  North 
River,  winding  twenty  miles  through  green 
meadows  to  the  sea,  was  once  the  scene  of 
more  shipbuilding  than  any  other  river  in 
New  England. 

There  is  nothing  more  indicative  of  the 
Yankees'  shrewd  practicality  than  the  early 
settlers'  instant  appreciation  of  the  financial 
and  economic  potentialities  of  the  fishing-trade. 
The  Spaniard  sought  for  gold  in  the  new  coun- 
try, or  contented  himself  with  the  fluctuating 
fur  trade  with  its  demoralizing  slack  seasons. 
But  the  New  Englander  promptly  applied 


THE  SCITUATE  SHORE         113 

himself  to  the  mundane  pursuit  of  cod  and 
mackerel.  Everybody  fished.  As  John  Smith, 
in  his  "Description  of  New  England,"  says: 
'Young  boyes  and  girles,  salvages  or  any 
other,  be  they  never  such  idlers,  may  turne, 
carry,  and  returne  fish  without  shame  or  either 
great  pain:  he  is  very  idle  that  is  past  twelve 
years  of  age  and  cannot  doe  so  much:  and  shee 
is  very  old  that  cannot  spin  a  thread  to  catch 
them." 

It  began  when  Squanto  the  Indian  showed 
the  amazed  colonists  how  he  could  tread  the 
eels  out  of  the  mud  with  his  feet  and  catch 
them  with  his  hands.  This  was  convenient,  to 
be  sure,  but  the  colonists  did  not  long  content 
themselves  with  such  primitive  methods.  They 
sent  to  England  for  cod  hooks  and  lines;  mack- 
erel hooks  and  lines;  herring  nets  and  seines; 
shark  hooks,  bass  nets,  squid  lines,  and  eel  pots; 
and  in  a  short  time  they  had  established  a  trade 
which  meant  more  money  than  the  gold  mines 
of  Guiana  or  Potosi.  The  modern  financier 
who  makes  a  fortune  from  the  invention  of  a 
collar  button  or  the  sale  of  countless  penny 


114         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

packages  of  gum  is  the  lineal  descendant  of 
that  first  thrifty  New  Englander  who  did  not 
scorn  the  humble  cod  because  it  was  cheap 
and  plentiful  (you  remember  how  these  same 
cod  "pestered"  the  ships  of  Gosnold  in  1602), 
but  set  to  work  with  the  quiet  initiative  which 
has  distinguished  New  Englanders  ever  since, 
first  to  catch,  then  to  barter,  and  finally  to  sell 
his  wares  to  all  the  world.  For  cheap  as  all  fish 
was  —  twopence  for  a  twelve-pound  cod,  sal- 
mon less  than  a  penny  a  pound,  and  shad, 
when  it  was  finally  considered  fit  to  eat  at  all, 
at  two  fish  for  a  penny  —  yet,  when  all  the 
world  is  ready  to  buy  and  the  supply  is  inex- 
haustible, tremendous  profits  are  possible.  The 
many  fast  days  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church 
abroad  opened  an  immense  demand,  and  in  a 
short  time  quantities  of  various  kinds  of  fish 
(Josselyn  in  1672  enumerates  over  two  hun- 
dred caught  in  New  England  waters)  were 
dried  and  salted  and  sent  to  England. 

This  constant  and  steadily  increasing  trade 
radically  affected  the  whole  economic  structure 
and  history  of  New  England  for  two  centuries. 


THE  SCITUATE  SHORE          115 

Ships  and  all  the  shipyard  industries;  the  farm, 
on  which  fish  was  used  not  only  as  a  medium 
of  exchange,  but  also  as  a  valuable  fertilizer; 
the  home,  where  the  many  operations  of  curing 
and  salting  were  carried  on  —  all  of  those  were 
developed  directly  by  the  growth  of  this  par- 
ticular trade.  Laws  were  made  and  continually 
revised  regarding  the  fisheries  and  safeguard- 
ing their  rights  in  every  conceivable  fashion; 
ship  carpenters  were  exempt  from  military 
service,  and  many  special  exemptions  were  ex- 
tended to  fishermen  under  the  general  statutes. 
The  oyster  is  now  a  dish  for  the  epicure  and 
the  lobster  for  the  millionaire.  But  in  the  old 
days  when  oysters  a  foot  long  were  not  un- 
common, and  lobsters  sometimes  grew  to  six 
feet,  every  one  had  all  he  wanted,  and  some- 
times more  than  he  wanted,  of  these  delicacies. 
The  stranger  in  New  England  may  notice  how 
certain  customs  still  prevail,  such  as  the  Fri- 
day night  fish  dinner  and  the  Sunday  morning 
fish-cakes ;  and  also  that  New  Englanders  as  a 
whole  have  a  rather  fastidious  taste  in  regard 
to  the  preparation  of  both  salt-  and  fresh- 


116         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

water  products.  The  food  of  any  region  is 
characteristic  of  that  region,  and  to  travel 
along  the  Old  Coast  Road  and  not  partake  of 
one  of  the  delicious  fish  dinners,  is  as  absurd 
as  it  would  be  to  omit  rice  from  a  menu  in 
China  or  roast  beef  from  an  English  dinner. 

While  the  fishing  trade  was  highly  impor- 
tant in  all  the  South  Shore  towns,  yet  it  was 
especially  so  in  Scituate.  In  1770  more  than 
thirty  vessels,  principally  for  mackerel,  were 
fitted  out  in  this  one  village,  and  these  vessels 
not  infrequently  took  a  thousand  barrels  in  a 
season.  In  winter  they  were  used  for  Southern 
coasting,  carrying  lumber  and  fish  and  return- 
ing with  grain  and  flour.  The  reason  why  fish- 
ing was  so  persistently  and  exclusively  fol- 
lowed in  this  particular  spot  is  not  hard  to 
seek.  The  sea  yielded  a  far  more  profitable  and 
ready  crop  than  the  land,  and,  besides,  had 
a  jealous  way  of  nibbling  away  at  the  land 
wherever  it  could.  It  is  estimated  that  it  wastes 
away  from  twelve  to  fourteen  inches  of  Fourth 
Cliff  every  year. 

But  in  spite  of  the  sea's  readily  accessible 


THE  SCITUATE  SHORE          117 

crop  it  was  natural  that  the  "men  of  Kent" 
who  settled  the  town  should  demand  some 
portion  of  dry  land  as  well.  These  men  of  Kent 
were  not  mermen,  able  to  live  in  and  on  the 
water  indefinitely,  but  decidedly  gallant  fel- 
lows, rather  more  courtly  than  their  neighbors, 
and  more  polished  than  the  race  which  suc- 
ceeded them.  Gilson,  Vassal,  Hatherly,  Cud- 
worth,  Tilden,  Hoar,  Foster,  Stedman,  and 
Hinckley  had  all  been  accustomed  to  the 
elegancies  of  life  in  England  as  their  names 
testify.  The  first  land  they  used  was  on  the 
cliffs,  for  it  had  already  been  improved  by 
Indian  planting;  then  the  salt  marshes,  cov- 
ered with  a  natural  crop  of  grass,  and  then  the 
mellow  intervales  near  the  river.  When  the 
sea  was  forced  to  the  regretful  realization  that 
she  could  not  monopolize  the  entire  attention 
of  her  fellows,  she  was  persuaded  to  yield  up 
some  very  excellent  fertilizer  in  the  way  of 
seaweed.  But  she  still  nags  away  at  the  cliffs 
and  shore,  and  proclaims  with  every  flaunting 
wave  and  ripple  that  it  is  the  water,  not  the 
land,  which  makes  Scituate  what  it  is. 


118         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

And,  after  all,  the  sea  is  right.  It  is  along  the 
shore  that  one  sees  Scituate  most  truly.  Here 
the  characteristic  industry  of  mossing  is  still 
carried  on  in  primitive  fashion.  The  mossers 
work  from  dories,  gathering  with  long-handled 
rakes  the  seaweed  from  the  rocks  and  ledges 
along  the  shore.  They  bring  it  in,  a  heavy, 
dark,  inert  mass,  all  sleek  and  dripping,  and 
spread  it  out  to  dry  in  the  sun.  As  it  lies  there, 
neatly  arranged  on  beds  of  smoothest  pebbles, 
the  sun  bleaches  it.  One  can  easily  differentiate 
the  different  days'  haul,  for  the  moss  which  is 
just  spread  out  is  almost  black  and  that  of  yes- 
terday is  a  dark  purple.  It  shimmers  from 
purple  into  lavender;  the  lavender  into  some- 
thing like  rose;  and  by  the  time  of  the  final 
washing  and  bleaching  it  lies  in  fine  light  white 
crinkles,  almost  like  wool.  It  is  a  pretty  sight, 
and  the  neatness  and  dispatch  of  the  mossers 
make  the  odd  sea-flower  gardens  attractive 
patches  on  the  beach.  Sometimes  a  family 
working  together  will  make  as  much  as  a 
thousand  dollars  in  a  season  gathering  and 
preparing  the  moss.  One  wonders  if  all  the 


THE  SCITUATE  SHORE         119 

people  in  the  world  could  eat  enough  blanc- 
mange to  consume  this  salty  product,  and  is 
relieved  to  be  reminded  that  the  moss  is  also 
used  for  brewing  and  dyeing. 

It  is  really  a  pity  to  see  Scituate  only  from 
a  motor.  There  is  real  atmosphere  to  the  place, 
which  is  worth  breathing,  but  it  takes  more 
time  to  breathe  in  an  atmosphere  than  merely 
to  "take  the  air."  Should  you  decide  to  ramble 
about  the  ancient  town  you  will  surely  find 
your  way  to  Scituate  Point.  The  old  stone 
lighthouse,  over  a  century  old,  is  no  longer 
used,  and  the  oil  lantern,  hung  nightly  out  at 
the  end  of  the  romantic  promontory,  seems  a 
return  to  days  of  long  ago.  You  will  also  see 
the  place  where,  in  the  stirring  Revolutionary 
days,  little  Abigail  and  Rebecca  Bates,  with 
fife  and  drum  marched  up  and  down,  close  to 
the  shore  and  yet  hidden  from  sight,  playing 
so  furiously  that  their  "martial  music  and 
other  noises"  scared  away  the  enemy  and 
saved  the  town  from  invasion.  You  will  go 
to  Second  Cliff  where  are  the  summer  homes 
of  many  literary  people,  and  you  will  pass 


120         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

through  Egypt,  catching  what  glimpse  you 
can  of  the  stables  and  offices,  paddocks  and 
cottages  of  the  immense  estate  of  Dream  wold. 
And  of  course  you  will  have  pointed  out  to 
you  the  birthplace  of  Samuel  Woodworth, 
whose  sole  claim  to  remembrance  is  his  poem 
of  the  "Old  Oaken  Bucket."  The  well-sweep 
is  still  where  he  saw  it,  when,  as  editor  of  the 
New  York  Mirror,  it  suddenly  flashed  before 
his  reminiscent  vision,  but  the  old  oaken 
bucket  itself  has  been  removed  to  a  museum. 
After  you  have  done  all  these  things,  you 
will,  if  you  are  wise,  forsake  Scituate  Harbor, 
which  is  the  old  section,  and  Scituate  Beach, 
which  is  the  newer,  summer  section,  and  find 
the  way  to  the  burial  ground,  which,  after  the 
one  in  Plymouth,  is  the  oldest  in  the  State. 
Possibly  there  will  be  others  at  the  burial 
ground,  for  ancestor  worshipers  are  not  con- 
fined to  China,  and  every  year  there  springs 
up  a  new  crop  of  genealogists  to  kneel  before 
the  moss-grown  headstones  and,  with  truly 
admirable  patience,  decipher  names  and  dates, 
half  obliterated  by  the  finger  of  time.  One 


THE  SCITUATE  SHORE 

does  not  wonder  that  their  descendants  are  so 
eager  to  trace  their  connection  back  to  those 
men  of  Kent,  whose  sturdy  title  rings  so 
bravely  down  the  centuries.  To  be  sure,  what 
is  left  to  trace  is  very  slight  in  most  cases,  and 
quite  without  any  savor  of  personality.  Too 
often  it  is  merely  brief  and  dry  recital  of  dates 
and  number  of  progeny,  and  names  of  the 
same.  Few  have  left  anything  so  quaint  as  the 
words  of  Walter  Briggs,  who  settled  there  in 
1651  and  from  whom  Briggs  Harbor  was 
named.  His  will  contains  this  thoughtful  pro- 
vision: "For  my  wife  Francis,  one  third  of  my 
estate  during  her  life,  also  a  gentle  horse  or 
mare,  and  Jemmy  the  negur  shall  catch  it  for 
her." 

The  good  people  who  came  later  (1634)  from 
Plymouth  and  Boston  and  took  up  their  diffi- 
cult colonial  life  under  the  pastorate  of  Mr. 
Lathrop,  seem  to  have  done  their  best  to  make 
"Satuit"  (as  it  was  first  called,  from  the  In- 
dians, meaning  "cold  brook")  conform  as 
nearly  as  possible  to  the  other  pioneer  settle- 
ments, even  to  the  point  of  discovering  witches 


THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

here.  But  religion  and  fasting  were  not  able  to 
accomplish  what  the  ubiquitous  summer  in- 
flux has,  happily,  also  failed  to  effect.  Scituate 
remains  different. 

Perhaps  it  was  those  men  of  Kent  who  gave 
it  its  indestructibly  romantic  bias;  perhaps 
it  is  the  jealousy  of  the  ever-encroaching  sea. 
The  gray  geese  flying  over  the  iridescent  moss 
gleaming  upon  the  pebbled  beaches,  the  soli- 
tary lantern  on  the  point  are  all  parts  of  that 
differentness.  And  those  who  love  her  best  are 
glad  that  it  is  so. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MARSHFIELD,  THE  HOME  OF  DANIEL  WEBSTER 

Ye  marshes,  how  candid  and  simple  and  no  thing- withholding  and  free! 
Ye  publish  yourselves  to  the  sky  and  offer  yourselves  to  the  sea! 
Tolerant  plains,  that  suffer  the  sea  and  the  rains  and  the  sun, 
Ye  spread  and  span  like  the  catholic  man  who  hath  mightily  won 
God  out  of  knowledge,  and  good  out  of  infinite  pain, 
And  sight  out  of  blindness,  and  purity  out  of  a  stain. 

IT  was  these  mighty  marshes  —  this  ample 
sweep  of  grass,  of  sea  and  sky -- this  vast 
earthly  and  heavenly  spaciousness  that  must 
forever  stand  to  all  New  Englanders  as  a  back- 
ground to  the  powerful  personality  who  chose 
it  as  his  own  home.  Daniel  Webster,  when  his 
eyes  first  turned  to  this  infinite  reach  of  large- 
ness, instinctively  knew  it  as  the  place  where 
his  splendid  senses  would  find  satisfaction,  and 
his  splendid  mind  would  soar  into  an  even 
loftier  freedom.  Webster  loved  Marshfield 


124         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

with  an  intensity  that  made  it  peculiarly  his 
own.  Lanier,  in  language  more  intricate  and 
tropical,  exclaimed  of  his  "dim  sweet"  woods: 
"Ye  held  me  fast  in  your  heart,  and  I  held 
you  fast  in  mine."  Webster  wielded  the  vital 
union  between  his  nature  and  that  of  the  land 
not  only  by  profound  sentiment,  but  by  a 
vigorous  physical  grappling  with  the  soil. 

Is  it  that  vivid  natures  unconsciously  seek 
an  environment  characteristic  of  them?  Or  are 
they,  perhaps,  inevitably  forced  to  create  such 
an  environment  wherever  they  find  them- 
selves? Both  facts  seem  true  in  this  case.  This 
wide  world  of  marsh  and  sea  is  not  only  beau- 
tifully expressive  of  one  who  plunged  himself 
into  a  rich  communion  with  the  earth,  with 
her  full  harvests  and  blooded  cattle,  with  her 
fruitful  brooks  and  lakes;  but  it  is  still,  after 
more  than  half  a  century,  vibrant  with  the 
spirit  of  the  man  who  dwelt  there. 

We  of  another  generation  —  and  a  gener- 
ation before  whom  so  many  portentous  events 
and  figures  have  passed  —  find  it  hard  to  real- 
ize the  tremendous  magnetism  and  brilliancy 


MARSHFIELD  125 

of  a  man  who  has  been  so  long  dead,  or  properly 
to  estimate  the  high  historical  significance  of 
such  a  life.  The  human  attribute  which  is  the 
most  immediately  impelling  in  direct  inter- 
course —  personality  —  is  the  most  elusive  to 
preserve.  If  Webster's  claim  to  remembrance 
rested  solely  upon  that  attribute,  he  would 
still  be  worthy  of  enduring  fame.  But  his  gifts 
flowered  at  a  spectacular  climax  of  national 
affairs  and  won  thereby  spectacular  promi- 
nence. That  these  gifts  were  to  lose  something 
of  their  pristine  repute  before  the  end  infuses, 
from  a  dramatic  point  of  view,  a  contrasted 
and  heightened  luster  to  the  period  of  their 
highest  glory. 

Let  us,  casual  travelers  of  a  later  and  more 
careless  day,  walk  now  together  over  the  place 
which  is  the  indestructible  memorial  of  a  great 
man,  and  putting  aside  the  measuring-stick  of 
criticism  —  the  sign  of  small  natures  —  try  to 
live  for  an  hour  in  the  atmosphere  which  was 
the  breath  of  life  to  one  who,  if  he  failed  greatly, 
also  succeeded  greatly,  and  whose  noble 
achievement  it  was  not  only  to  express,  but 


126         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

to  vivify  a  love  for  the  Union  which,  in  its  hour 
of  supreme  trial,  became  its  triumphant  force. 
Could  we  go  back  —  not  quite  a  hundred 
years  —  a  little  off  the  direct  route  to  Ply- 
mouth, on  a  site  overlooking  the  broad 
marshes  of  Green  Harbor  and  the  sea,  where 
there  now  stands  a  boulder  erected  in  1914  by 
the  Boston  University  Law  School  Associa- 
tion, we  would  find  a  comfortable,  rambling 
house,  distinguished  among  its  New  England 
neighbors  by  an  easy  and  delightful  hospitality 
—  the  kind  of  hospitality  we  call  "Southern." 
There  are  many  people  in  the  house,  on  the 
veranda  and  lawns:  a  hostess  of  gentle  mien 
and  manners;  children  attractive  in  the  spon- 
taneity of  those  who  continually  and  happily 
associate  with  their  elders;  several  house  guests 
(yonder  is  Audubon  the  great  naturalist,  here 
is  an  office-seeker  from  Boston,  and  that  chap 
over  there,  so  very  much  at  home,  can  be  no 
other  than  Peter  Harvey,  Webster's  fond  bi- 
ographer). Callers  there  are,  also,  as  is  shown 
by  the  line  of  chaises  and  saddle  horses  waiting 
outside,  and  old  Captain  Thomas  and  his  wife, 


MARSHFIELD  127 

from  whom  the  place  was  bought,  and  who 
still  retain  their  original  quarters,  move  in  and 
out  like  people  who  consider  themselves  part 
of  the  family.  It  is  a  heterogeneous  collection, 
yet  by  no  means  an  awkward  one,  and  every 
one  is  chatting  with  every  one  else  with  great 
amiability.  It  is  late  afternoon:  the  master  of 
the  house  has  been  away  all  day,  and  now  his 
guests  and  his  family  are  glancing  in  the  direc- 
tion from  which  he  may  be  expected.  For  al- 
though every  one  is  comfortable  and  properly 
entertained,  yet  the  absence  of  the  host  creates 
an  inexpressible  emptiness;  it  is  as  if  every- 
thing were  quiescent  —  hardly  breathing  — 
merely  waiting  until  he  comes.  Suddenly  the 
atmosphere  changes;  it  is  charged  with  a 
strong  vibrant  quality;  everything  —  all  eyes, 
all  interest  —  is  instantly  focused  on  the  figure 
which  has  appeared  among  them.  He  is  in 
fisherman's  clothes  —  this  newcomer  —  at- 
tired with  a  brave  eye  for  the  picturesque,  in 
soft  hat  and  flowing  tie;  but  there  are  no  fish- 
erman's clothes,  no,  nor  any  other  cloakings 
which  can  conceal  the  resilient  dignity  of  his 


128         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

bearing,  his  impressive  build,  and  magnificent, 
kingly  head.  Sydney  Smith  called  Webster  a 
cathedral;  and  surely  there  must  have  been 
something  in  those  enormous,  burning  eyes, 
that  craglike  brow,  that  smote  even  the  most 
superficial  observer  into  an  admiration  which 
was  almost  awe. 

Many  men  —  perhaps  even  the  majority  — • 
whatever  their  genius  in  the  outer  world,  in 
their  own  houses  are  either  relegated  to  —  or 
choose  —  the  inconspicuous  role  of  mere  mas- 
culine appendages.  But  here  we  have  a  man 
who  is  superbly  the  host:  he  knows  and  wel- 
comes every  guest  and  caller;  he  personally 
supervises  the  disposal  of  their  baggage  and 
the  selection  of  their  chambers;  he  himself  has 
ordered  the  dinner  —  mutton  which  he  has 
raised,  fish  which  he  has  caught  —  and  it  is 
being  cooked  by  Monica,  the  Southern  slave 
whose  freedom  he  purchased  for  her.  He 
carves  at  table,  priding  himself  on  his  dispatch 
and  nicety,  and  keeps  an  eye  on  the  needs  of 
every  one  at  the  long  board.  Everything, 
every  one  in  the  house  is  irresistibly  drawn 


MARSHFIELD  129 

about  this  magnetic  center  which  dominates 
by  its  innate  power  of  personality  more  than 
by  any  deliberate  intention.  His  children 
worship  him;  his  wife  idolizes  him;  each  man 
and  woman  on  the  place  regards  him  with 
admiring  affection.  And  in  such  congenial  at- 
mosphere he  expands,  is  genial,  kindly,  de- 
lightful. But  devoted  as  he  is  to  his  home,  his 
family,  and  his  friends,  and  charming  as  he 
shows  himself  with  them,  yet  it  is  not  until  we 
see  him  striding  over  the  farm  which  he  has 
bought  that  we  see  the  Daniel  Webster  who 
is  destined  to  live  most  graphically  in  the 
memories  of  those  who  like  to  think  of  great 
men  in  those  intimate  moments  which  are 
most  personally  characteristic  of  them. 

We  must  rise  early  in  the  morning  if  we 
would  accompany  him  on  his  day's  round.  He 
himself  is  up  at  sunrise,  for  the  sunrise  is  to 
him  signal  to  new  life.  As  he  once  wrote: 
"Among  all  our  good  people  not  one  in  a 
thousand  sees  the  sun  rise  once  a  year.  They 
know  nothing  of  the  morning.  Their  idea  of  it 
is  that  part  of  the  day  which  comes  along 


130         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

after  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  beefsteak  or  a  piece 
of  toast.  With  them  morning  is  not  a  new 
issuing  of  light,  a  new  bursting  forth  of  the 
sun,  a  new  waking  up  of  all  that  has  life  from 
a  sort  of  temporary  death,  to  behold  again  the 
works  of  God,  the  heavens  and  the  earth.  .  .  . 
The  first  faint  streak  of  light,  the  earliest 
purpling  of  the  east  which  the  lark  springs  up 
to  greet,  and  the  deeper  and  deeper  coloring 
into  orange  and  red,  till  at  length  the  4  glorious 
sun  is  seen,  regent  of  the  day '  —  this  they 
never  enjoy,  for  they  never  see  it." 

So  four  o'clock  finds  Webster  up  and  dressed 
and  bound  for  the  little  study  in  his  garden 
(the  only  building  spared  by  the  fire  which 
destroyed  the  house  in  1878)  and  beginning 
his  correspondence.  If  he  has  no  secretary  he 
writes  himself,  and  by  time  breakfast  is  an- 
nounced twenty  letters,  all  franked  and  sealed, 
are  ready  to  be  posted. 

"Now,"  he  says,  smiling  benignantly  down 
the  long  breakfast  table  of  family  and  friends, 
"my  day's  work  is  done  —  I  have  nothing  to 
do  but  fish." 


MARSHFIELD  131 

Although  this  is,  indeed,  his  favorite  sport, 
and  there  is  hardly  a  brook  or  lake  or  pond 
within  a  radius  of  twenty  miles  which  does  not 
bear  the  charmed  legend  of  having  been  one 
of  his  favorite  fishing  grounds,  he  does  not 
spend  his  days  in  amusement,  like  the  typical 
country  gentleman.  Farming  to  him,  the  son 
of  a  yeoman,  is  no  mere  possession  of  a  fine 
estate,  but  the  actual  participation  in  plough- 
ing, planting,  and  haying.  His  full  animal 
spirits  find  relief  in  such  labor.  We  cannot 
think  of  any  similar  example  of  such  prodigious 
mental  and  physical  energy.  Macaulay  was  a 
great  parliamentary  orator,  but  he  was  the 
most  conventional  of  city  men;  Burke  and 
Chatham  had  no  strength  for  such  strenuous- 
ness  after  their  professional  toil.  But  Webster 
loved  to  know  and  to  put  his  hand  to  every 
detail  of  farming  and  stock-raising.  When  he 
first  came  to  Marshfield  the  soil  was  thin  and 
sandy.  It  was  he  who  instituted  scientific  farm- 
ing in  the  region,  teaching  the  natives  how  to 
fertilize  with  kelp  which  was  easily  obtainable 
from  the  sea,  and  also  with  the  plentiful  small 


132         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

herring  or  menhaden.  He  taught  them  the 
proper  care  of  the  soil,  and  the  rotation  of 
crops.  This  passionate  love  of  the  earth  was  an 
integral  part  of  the  man.  As  the  force  of  his 
mind  drew  its  power,  not  from  mere  rhetorical 
facility,  but  from  fundamental  principles,  so 
his  magnificent  body,  like  that  of  the  fabled 
Antaeus,  seemed  to  draw  perennial  potency 
from  contact  with  the  earth.  To  acquire  land 
—  he  owned  nearly  eighteen  hundred  acres  at 
the  time  of  his  death  —  and  to  cultivate  it  to 
the  highest  possible  degree  of  productiveness 
was  his  intense  delight.  The  farm  which  he 
purchased  from  Captain  Thomas  grew  to  an 
estate  of  two  or  three  dozen  buildings,  out- 
houses, tenant  houses,  a  dairyman's  cottage, 
fisherman's  house,  agricultural  offices,  and 
several  large  barns.  We  can  imagine  that  he 
shows  us  all  of  these  things  —  explaining  every 
detail  with  enthusiasm  and  accuracy,  occa- 
sionally digressing  upon  the  habits  of  birds 
or  fish,  the  influence  of  tides  and  currents, 
the  changes  of  sky  and  wind.  All  natural  laws 
are  fascinating  to  him  —  inspiring  his  imagi- 


MARSHFIELD  133 

nation  and  uplifting  his  spirit  —  and  it  is  these 
things,  never  politics  or  business,  which  he 
discusses  in  his  hours  of  freedom.  He  himself 
supervises  the  planting  and  harvesting  and 
slaughtering  here  and  on  his  other  farm  at 
Franklin  —  the  family  homestead  —  even  when 
obliged  to  be  absent,  or  even  when  tempo- 
rarily residing  in  Washington  and  hard  pressed 
with  the  cares  of  his  office  as  Secretary  of 
State. 

Those  painters  who  include  a  parrot  in  the 
portrait  of  some  fine  frivolous  lady  do  so  to 
heighten  their  interpretation  of  character.  We 
all  betray  our  natures,  by  the  creatures  we  in- 
stinctively gather  about  us.  One  might  know 
that  Jefferson  at  Monticello  would  select  high- 
bred saddle  horses  as  his  companions;  that 
Cardinal  Richelieu  would  find  no  pet  so  sooth- 
ing, so  alluring,  as  a  soft-stepping  cat;  that 
Charles  I  would  select  the  long-haired  spaniel. 
So  it  is  entirely  in  the  picture  that  of  all  the 
beasts  brought  under  human  yoke,  that  great 
oxen,  slow,  solemn,  strong,  would  appeal  to 
the  man  whose  searching  eyes  were  never  at 


134         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

rest  except  when  they  swept  a  wide  horizon; 
whose  mind  found  its  deepest  satisfaction  in 
noble  languages,  the  giant  monuments  of  lit- 
erature and  art,  and  whose  soul  best  stretched 
its  wings  beside  the  limitless  sea  and  under  the 
limitless  sky.  Webster  was  fond  of  all  animal 
life;  he  felt  himself  part  of  its  free  movement. 
Guinea  hens,  peacocks,  ducks,  flocks  of  tamed 
wild  geese,  dogs,  horses  —  these  were  all  part 
of  the  Marshfield  place,  but  there  was  within 
the  breast  of  the  owner  a  special  responsive- 
ness to  great  herds  of  cattle,  and  especially 
fine  oxen,  the  embodiment  of  massive  power. 
So  fond  was  he  of  these  favorite  beasts  of  his, 
that  often  on  his  arrival  home  he  would  fling 
his  bag  into  the  hall  without  even  entering  the 
house,  and  hasten  to  the  barn  to  see  that  they 
were  properly  tied  up  for  the  night.  As  he 
once  said  to  his  little  son,  as  they  both  stood 
by  the  stalls  and  he  was  feeding  the  oxen  with 
ears  of  corn  from  an  unhusked  pile  lying  on  the 
barn  floor:  "I  would  rather  be  here  than  in  the 
Senate,"  adding,  with  his  famous  smile,  "I 
think  it  is  better  company."  So  we  may  be 


MARSHFIELD  135 

sure  as  we  walk  in  our  retrospect  about  the 
farm  with  him  —  he  never  speaks  of  it  as  an 
"estate "  but  always  as  a  farm  —  he  will  linger 
longest  where  the  Devon  oxen,  the  Alderneys, 
Herefordshire,  and  Ayrshire  are  grazing,  and 
that  the  eyes  which  Carlyle  likened  to  anthra- 
cite furnaces  will  glow  and  soften.  Twenty 
years  from  now  he  will  gaze  out  upon  his  oxen 
once  again  from  the  window  before  which  he 
has  asked  to  be  carried,  as  he  lies  waiting  for 
death.  Weariness,  disease,  and  disappointment 
have  weakened  the  elasticity  of  his  spirit,  and 
as  they  pass  —  his  beloved  oxen,  slowly,  sol- 
emnly —  what  procession  of  the  years  passes 
with  them!  Years  of  full  living,  of  generous 
living;  of  deep  emotions;  of  glory;  years  of 
ambition;  of  bereavement;  of  grief.  It  is  all  to 
pass  —  these  happy  days  at  Marshfield;  the 
wife  he  so  fondly  cared  for;  the  children  he  so 
deeply  cherished.  Sycophants  are  to  fill,  in  a 
measure,  the  place  of  friends,  the  money  which 
now  flows  in  so  freely  is  to  entangle  and  en- 
snare him;  the  lofty  aspiration  which  now 
inspires  him  is  to  degenerate  into  a  presiden- 


136         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

tial  ambition  which  will  eat  into  his  soul.  But 
to-day  let  us,  as  long  as  we  may,  see  him  as 
he  is  in  the  height  of  his  powers.  Let  us  walk 
with  him  under  the  trees  which  he  planted. 
Those  large  elms,  gracefully  silhouetted  against 
the  house,  were  placed  there  with  his  own 
hands  at  the  birth  of  his  son  Edward  and  his 
daughter  Julia,  and  he  always  refers  to  them 
gently  as  "brother"  and  "sister."  To  plant  a 
tree  to  mark  an  event  was  one  of  his  pictur- 
esque customs — an  unconscious  desire,  per- 
haps, to  project  himself  into  the  future.  I  am 
quite  sure,  as  we  accompany  him,  he  will  ex- 
patiate on  the  improvement  in  the  soil  which 
he  has  effected;  that  he  will  point  out  eagerly 
not  only  the  domestic  but  the  wild  animals 
about  the  place;  and  that  he  will  stand  for  a 
few  moments  on  the  high  bluff  overlooking  the 
sea  and  the  marshes  and  let  the  wind  blow 
through  his  dark  hair.  He  is  carefully  dressed 
—  he  always  dresses  to  fit  the  occasion  —  and 
to-day,  as  he  stands  in  his  long  boots  reaching 
to  the  knee  and  adorned  with  a  tassel,  his  bell- 
crowned  beaver  hat  in  his  hand,  and  in  his 


'•  .<? 

',  '         1 

'k  'J    ' 

* — '  \  /\        > 


MARSHFIELD  137 

tight  pantaloons  and  well-cut  coat  —  a  mag- 
nificent specimen  of  virile  manhood  —  the 
words  of  Lanier,  although  written  at  a  later 
date,  and  about  marshes  far  more  lush  than 
these  New  England  ones,  beat  upon  our  ears: 

"Oh,  what  is  abroad  in  the  marsh  and  the  terminal  sea? 
Somehow  my  soul  seems  suddenly  free 
From  the  weighing  of  fate  and  the  sad  discussion  of  sin, 
By  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the 
marshes  of  Glynn." 

On  the  way  back  he  will  show  us  the  place 
where  three  of  his  favorite  horses  are  buried, 
for  he  does  not  sell  the  old  horses  who  have 
done  him  good  service,  but  has  them  buried 
"with  the  honors  of  war"  —  that  is,  standing 
upright,  with  their  halters  and  shoes  on.  Above 
one  of  them  he  has  placed  the  epitaph: 

"Siste  Viator! 
Viator  te  major  hie  sistit." 

I  do  not  know  if,  as  we  return  to  the  house 
where  already  a  fresh  group  of  visitors  has  ar- 
rived, he  will  pause  by  a  corner  of  the  yard  set 
off  by  an  iron  fence.  He  has  chosen  this  spot  as 
the  place  where  he  shall  lie,  and  here,  in  time, 


138         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

are  to  repose  under  the  wide  and  simple  vault 
of  sky  the  wife  and  children  whose  going  before 
is  to  bring  such  desolation.  It  is  a  place  su- 
premely fitting  for  that  ample  spirit  which 
knew  for  its  own  the  nobility  of  large  spaces, 
and  the  grandeur  of  repose. 

The  life  of  Daniel  Webster  is  one  of  the  most 
dramatic  and  touching  of  any  of  our  great 
men.  He  was  an  orator  of  such  solid  thought 
and  chaste  eloquence  that  even  now,  without 
the  advantage  of  the  marvelously  rich  and 
flexible  voice  and  the  commanding  presence 
that  made  each  word  burn  like  a  fire,  even 
without  this  incalculable  personal  interpreta- 
tion, his  speeches  remain  as  a  permanent  part 
of  our  literature,  and  will  so  long  as  English 
oratory  is  read.  He  was  a  brilliant  lawyer  - 
the  foremost  of  his  day  —  and  his  statesman- 
ship was  of  equal  rank.  In  private  life  he  was 
a  peculiarly  devoted  and  tender  son,  husband, 
father,  and  friend.  That  he  should  have  be- 
come saddened  by  domestic  losses  and  some- 
what vitiated  by  flattery  were,  perhaps,  inevi- 
table. He  was  bitterly  condemned  —  more 


MARSHFIELD  139 

bitterly  by  his  contemporaries  than  by  those 
who  now  study  his  words  and  work  —  for 
lowering  his  high  standard  in  regard  to  slav- 
ery. It  is  impossible  to  refute  the  accusation, 
at  the  end  of  his  life,  of  a  carelessness  ap- 
proaching unscrupulousness  in  money  matters. 
His  personal  failings,  which  were  those  of  a 
man  of  exceptional  vitality,  have  been  heav- 
ily —  too  heavily  —  emphasized.  He  ate  and 
drank  and  spent  money  lavishly;  he  had  a  fine 
library;  he  loved  handsome  plate  and  good 
service  and  good  living.  He  was  generous;  he 
was  kind.  That  he  was  susceptible  to  adula- 
tion and,  after  the  death  of  his  first  wife, 
drifted  into  associations  less  admirable  than 
those  of  his  earlier  years,  are  the  dark  threads 
of  a  woof  underrunning  a  majestic  warp.  He 
adored  his  country  with  a  fervor  that  savors 
of  the  heroic,  and  when  he  said,  "There  are  no 
Alleghanies  in  my  politics,"  he  spoke  the 
truth.  The  intense  passion  for  the  soil  which 
animated  him  at  Marshfield  was  only  a  frag- 
ment of  that  higher  passion  for  his  country  — 
a  feeling  never  tainted  by  sectionalism  or  local 


140         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

prejudice.  It  was  this  profound  love  for  the 
Union,  coupled  with  his  surpassing  gift  of  elo- 
quence in  expressing  that  love  and  inspiring  it 
in  all  who  heard  him,  that  distinguishes  him 
for  all  time. 

There  are  other  memorable  things  about 
Marshfield.  Governor  Edward  Winslow,  who 
was  sent  to  England  to  represent  the  Ply- 
mouth and  Massachusetts  Bay  Colonies,  and 
whose  son  Josiah  was  the  first  native  Governor 
of  the  Colony,  may  both  be  called  Marshfield 
men.  Peregrine  White,  the  first  white  child  born 
in  this  country,  lies  in  the  Winslow  Burying 
Ground.  One  of  the  most  singular  changes 
on  our  coast  occurred  in  this  vicinity  when  in 
one  night  the  "Portland  Breeze"  closed  up 
the  mouth  of  the  South  River  and  four  miles 
up  the  beach  opened  up  the  mouth  of  the 
North  River,  making  an  entrance  three  quar- 
ters of  a  mile  wide  between  Third  and  Fourth 
Cliff. 

These  and  many  other  men  and  events  of 
Marshfield  are  properly  given  a  place  in  the 
history  of  New  England,  but  the  special  glory 


MARSHFIELD  141 

of  this  spot  will  always  be  that  Daniel  Web- 
ster chose  to  live,  chose  to  die,  and  chose 
to  be  buried  under  the  vast  vault  of  her 
skyey  spaces,  within  the  sound  of  her  eternal 
sea. 


X  ,- 


CHAPTER  IX 

DUXBURY  HOMES 

THERE  are  certain  places  whose  happy 
fortune  seems  to  be  that  they  are  always 
specially  loved  and  specially  sought  by  the 
children  of  men.  From  that  memorable  date 
in  1630  when  a  little  group  of  the  Plymouth 
colonists  asked  permission  to  locate  across  the 
bay  at  "Duxberie"  until  now,  when  the  sum- 
mer colony  alone  has  far  surpassed  that  of  the 
original  settlers,  this  section  of  the  coast  — 
with  its  lovely  six-mile  beach,  its  high  bluffs, 
and  its  pleasant  hills  and  pasture  lands,  upon 
which  are  found  quite  a  southern  flora,  unique 
in  this  northern  latitude  —  has  been  thor- 
oughly frequented  and  enjoyed. 


DTJXBURY  HOMES  143 

There  is  no  more  graphic  index  to  the  cali- 
ber of  a  people  than  the  houses  which  they 
build,  and  the  first  house  above  all  others 
which  we  must  associate  with  this  spot  is  the 
Standish  cottage,  built  at  the  foot  of  Cap- 
tain's Hill  by  Alexander  Standish,  the  son  of 
Myles,  partly  from  materials  from  his  father's 
house,  which  was  burned  down,  but  whose 
cellar  is  still  visible.  This  long,  low,  gambrel- 
roofed  structure,  with  a  broad  chimney  show- 
ing the  date  of  1666,  was  a  long  way  ahead  of 
the  first  log  cabins  erected  by  the  Pilgrims  — 
farther  than  most  of  us  realize,  accustomed  as 
we  are  to  glass  instead  of  oiled  paper  in  win- 
dows; to  shingles,  and  not  thatch  for  roofs.  It 
is  fitting  that  this  ancient  and  charming  dwell- 
ing should  be  associated  with  one  of  the  most 
romantic,  most  striking,  names  in  the  Ply- 
mouth Colony.  There  are  few  more  picturesque 
personalities  in  our  early  history  than  Myles 
Standish.  Small  in  stature,  fiery  in  spirit,  a 
terror  to  the  Indians,  and  a  strong  arm  to  the 
Pilgrims,  there  is  no  doubt  that  his  determina- 
tion to  live  in  Duxbury  -  -  which  he  named  for 


144         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

Duxborough  Hall,  his  ancestral  home  in  Lan- 
cashire —  went  far  in  obtaining  for  it  a  sepa- 
rate incorporation  and  a  separate  church.  This 
was  the  first  definite  offshoot  from  the  Ply- 
mouth Colony,  and  was  accompanied  by  the 
usual  maternal  fears.  While  he  could  not  for- 
bid them  going  to  Duxbury  to  settle,  yet, 
when  they  asked  for  a  separate  incorporation 
and  church,  Bradford  granted  it  most  unwill- 
ingly. He  voiced  the  general  sentiment  when 
he  wrote  that  such  a  separation  presaged  the 
ruin  of  the  church  "&  will  provoke  ye  Lord's 
displeasure  against  them." 

However,  such  unkind  predictions  in  no 
wise  bothered  the  sturdy  little  group  who 
moved  over  to  the  new  location,  needing  room 
for  their  cattle  and  their  gardens,  and  most  of 
all  a  sense  of  freedom  from  the  restrictions  of 
the  mother  colony.  The  son  of  Elder  Brewster 
went,  and  in  time  the  Elder  himself,  and  so 
did  John  Alden  and  his  wife  Priscilla,  whose 
courtship  has  been  so  well  told  by  Longfellow 
that  it  needs  no  further  embellishing  here.  On 
the  grassy  knoll  where  John  and  Priscilla 


DUXBURY  HOMES  145 

built  their  home  in  1631,  their  grandson  built 
the  cottage  which  now  stands  —  the  property 
of  the  Alden  Kindred  Association.  John  Alden 
seems  to  have  been  an  attractive  young  fellow 
—  it  is  easy  to  see  why  Priscilla  Mullins  pre- 
ferred him  to  the  swart,  truculent  widower  — 
but  from  our  point  of  view  John  Alden' s  chief 
claim  to  fame  is  that  he  was  a  friend  of  Myles 
Standish. 

Let  us,  as  we  pay  our  respects  to  Duxbury, 
pause  for  a  moment  and  recall  some  of  the 
courageous  adventures,  some  of  the  brave 
traits  and  some  of  the  tender  ones,  which 
make  up  our  memory  of  this  doughty  military 
commander.  In  the  first  place,  we  must  re- 
member that  he  was  never  a  member  of  the 
church  of  the  Pilgrims :  there  is  even  a  question 
if  he  were  not  —  like  the  rest  of  his  family 
in  Lancashire  —  a  Roman  Catholic;  and  this 
immediately  places  him  in  a  position  of  pe- 
culiar distinction.  From  the  first  his  mission 
was  not  along  ecclesiastical  lines,  but  along 
military  and  civil  ones.  The  early  histories  are 
full  of  his  intrepid  deeds:  there  was  never  an 


146         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

expedition  too  dangerous  or  too  difficult  to 
daunt  him.  He  would  attack  with  the  utmost 
daring  the  hardest  or  the  humblest  task.  He 
was  absolutely  loyal  to  the  interest  of  the  Col- 
ony, and  during  that  first  dreadful  winter 
when  he  was  among  the  very  few  who  were  not 
stricken  with  sickness,  he  tended  the  others 
day  and  night,  "unceasing  in  his  loving  care." 
As  in  many  audacious  characters  this  sweeter 
side  of  his  nature  does  not  seem  to  have  been 
fully  appreciated  by  his  contemporaries,  and 
we  have  the  letter  in  which  Robinson,  that 
"most  learned,  polished  and  modest  spirit," 
writes  to  Bradford,  and  warns  him  to  have 
care  about  Standish.  He  loves  him  right  well, 
and  is  persuaded  that  God  has  given  him  to 
them  in  mercy  and  for  much  good,  if  he  is  used 
aright;  but  he  fears  that  there  may  be  wanting 
in  him  "that  tenderness  of  the  life  of  man 
(made  after  God's  image)  which  is  meet." 
This  warning  doubtless  flattered  Standish,  but 
Robinson's  later  criticism  of  his  methods  at 
Weymouth  hurt  the  little  captain  cruelly.  He 
seems  to  have  cherished  an  intense  affection  for 


DUXBURY  HOMES  147 

the  Leyden  pastor,  such  as  valorous  natures 
often  feel  for  meditative  ones,  and  that  Robin- 
son died  before  he  —  Standish  —  could  justify 
himself  was  a  deep  grief  to  the  soldier  to  whom 
mere  physical  hardships  were  as  nothing.  We 
do  not  know  a  great  deal  about  this  relation- 
ship between  the  two  men :  in  this  as  in  so  many 
cases  the  intimate  stories  of  these  men  and 
women,  "also  their  love,  and  their  hatred,  and 
their  envy  is  now  perished."  But  we  do  know 
that  thirty  years  later  when  the  gallant  cap- 
tain lay  dying  he  wrote  in  his  will :  "  I  give  three 
pounds  to  Mercy  Robinson,  whom  I  tenderly 
love  for  her  grandfather's  sake."  Surely  one 
feels  the  touching  eloquence  of  this  brief  sen- 
tence the  fitting  close  of  a  life  not  only  heroic 
in  action,  but  deeply  sensitive  in  sentiment. 

He  died  on  his  farm  in  Duxbury  in  1656 
when  he  was  seventy- three,  and  the  Myles 
Standish  Monument  on  Captain's  Hill,  three 
hundred  and  ten  feet  above  the  bay,  is  no 
more  conspicuous  than  his  knightly  and  ten- 
der life  among  the  people  he  elected  to  serve. 
His  two  wives,  and  also  Priscilla  and  John 


148         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

Alden,  for  whom  he  entertained  such  lively 
love  and  equally  lively  fury,  all  are  buried 
here  —  the  Captain's  last  home  fittingly 
marked  by  four  cannon  and  a  sturdy  boulder. 

Not  only  for  Standish  and  Alden  is  Dux- 
bury  famous.  The  beloved  William  Brews ter 
himself  moved  to  this  new  settlement,  and  up 
to  a  few  years  ago  the  traces  of  the  whitewood 
trees  which  gave  the  name  of  "Eagle's  Nest" 
to  his  house  could  be  distinguished.  One  son  — 
Love  —  lived  with  the  venerable  elder,  who 
was  a  widower,  and  his  other  son  Jonathan 
owned  the  neighboring  farm.  In  the  sight  of 
the  Plymouth  Colony  —  their  first  home  in 
the  new  land  —  the  three  men  often  worked 
together,  cutting  trees  and  planting. 

Others  of  the  original  Mayflower  company 
came  too,  leaving  traces  of  themselves  in  such 
names  as  Blackfriars  Brook,  Billingsgate,  and 
Houndsditch  —  names  which  they  brought 
from  Old  England. 

The  homes  which  these  pioneers  so  labori- 
ously and  so  lovingly  wrought  —  what  were 
they?  How  did  they  compare  with  the  modern 


DUXBURY  HOMES  149 

home  and  household?  In  Mr.  Sheldon's  "His- 
tory of  Deerfield  "  we  find  such  a  charming  and 
vivid  picture  of  home  life  in  the  early  days  — 
and  one  that  applies  with  equal  accuracy  to 
Duxbury-- that  we  cannot  do  better  than 
copy  it  here: 

"The  ample  kitchen  was  the  center  of  the 
family  life,  social  and  industrial.  Here  around 
the  rough  table,  seated  on  rude  stools  or 
benches,  all  partook  of  the  plain  and  some- 
times stinted  fare.  A  glance  at  the  family  gath- 
ered here  after  nightfall  on  a  winter's  day  may 
prove  of  interest. 

"After  a  supper  of  bean  porridge  or  hasty 
pudding  and  milk  of  which  all  partake  in  com- 
mon from  a  great  pewter  basin,  or  wooden 
bowl,  with  spoons  of  wood,  horn  or  pewter; 
after  a  reverent  reading  of  the  Bible,  and  fer- 
vent supplications  to  the  Most  High  for 
prayer  and  guidance;  after  the  watch  was  set 
on  the  tall  mount,  and  the  vigilant  sentinel 
began  pacing  his  lonely  beat,  the  shutters 
were  closed  and  barred,  and  with  a  sense  of 
security  the  occupations  of  the  long  winter 


150         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

evening  began.  Here  was  a  picture  of  industry 
enjoined  alike  by  the  law  of  the  land  and  the 
stern  necessities  of  the  settlers.  All  were  busy. 
Idleness  was  a  crime.  On  the  settle,  or  a  low 
armchair,  in  the  most  sheltered  nook,  sat  the 
revered  grandam  —  as  a  term  of  endearment 
called  granny  —  in  red  woolen  gown,  and 
white  linen  cap,  her  gray  hair  and  wrinkled 
face  reflecting  the  bright  firelight,  the  long 
stocking  growing  under  her  busy  needles, 
while  she  watched  the  youngling  of  the  flock 
in  the  cradle  by  her  side.  The  goodwife,  in 
linsey-woolsey  short-gown  and  red  petticoat 
steps  lightly  back  and  forth  in  calf  pumps  be- 
side the  great  wheel,  or  poising  gracefully  on 
the  right  foot,  the  left  hand  extended  with  the 
roll  or  bat,  while  with  a  wheel  finger  in  the 
other,  she  gives  the  wheel  a  few  swift  turns  for 
a  final  twist  to  the  long-drawn  thread  of  wool 
or  tow.  The  continuous  buzz  of  the  flax 
wheels,  harmonizing  with  the  spasmodic  hum 
of  the  big  wheel,  shows  that  the  girls  are  pre- 
paring a  stock  of  linen  against  their  wedding 
day.  Less  active  and  more  fitful  rattled  the 


DUXBURY  HOMES  151 

quill  wheel,  where  the  younger  children  are 
filling  quills  for  the  morrow's  weaving. 

"  Craftsmen  are  still  scarce,  and  the  yeoman 
must  depend  largely  on  his  own  skill  and  re- 
sources. The  grandsire,  and  the  goodman,  his 
son,  in  blue  woolen  frocks,  buckskin  breeches, 
long  stockings,  and  clouted  brogans  with  pew- 
ter buckles,  and  the  older  boys  in  shirts  of 
brown  tow,  waistcoat  and  breeches  of  butter- 
nut-colored woolen  homespun,  surrounded  by 
piles  of  white  hickory  shavings,  are  whit- 
tling out  with  keen  Barlow  jack-knives  imple- 
ments for  home  use:  ox-bows  and  bow-pins, 
axe-helves,  rakestales,  forkstales,  handles  for 
spades  and  billhooks,  wooden  shovels,  flail 
staff  and  swingle,  swingling  knives,  or  pokes 
and  hog  yokes  for  unruly  cattle  and  swine. 
The  more  ingenious,  perhaps,  are  fashioning 
buckets  or  powdering  tubs,  or  weaving  skeps, 
baskets  or  snpwshoes.  Some,  it  may  be,  sit 
astride  the  wooden  shovel,  shelling  corn  on  its 
iron-shod  edge,  while  others  are  pounding  it 
into  samp  or  hominy  in  the  great  wooden 
mortar. 


152         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

"  There  are  no  lamps  or  candles,  but  the  red 
light  from  the  burning  pine  knots  on  the  hearth 
glows  over  all,  repeating,  in  fantastic  panto- 
mime on  the  brown  walls  and  closed  shutters, 
the  varied  activities  around  it.  These  are  oc- 
casionally brought  into  higher  relief  by  the 
white  flashes,  as  the  boys  throw  handfuls  of 
hickory  shavings  onto  the  forestick,  or  punch 
the  back  log  with  the  long  iron  peel,  while 
wishing  they  had  as  '  many  shillings  as  sparks 
go  up  the  chimney.'  Then,  the  smoke-stained 
joists  and  boards  of  the  ceiling  with  the 
twisted  rings  of  pumpkin  strings  or  crimson 
peppers  and  festoons  of  apple,  drying  on  poles 
hung  beneath;  the  men's  hats,  the  crook- 
necked  squashes,  the  skeins  of  thread  and 
yarn  hanging  in  bunches  on  the  wainscot;  the 
sheen  of  the  pewter  plates  and  basins,  stand- 
ing in  rows  on  the  shelves  of  the  dresser;  the 
trusty  firelock  with  powder  horn,  bandolier, 
and  bullet  pouch,  hanging  on  the  summertree, 
and  the  bright  brass  warming-pan  behind 
the  bedroom  door  —  all  stand  revealed  more 
clearly  for  an  instant,  showing  the  provident 


DUXBURY  HOMES  153 

care  for  the  comfort  and  safety  of  the  house- 
hold. Dimly  seen  in  the  corners  of  the  room 
are  baskets  in  which  are  packed  hands  of  flax 
from  the  barn,  where,  under  the  flaxbrake,  the 
swingling  knives  and  the  coarse  hackle,  the 
shives  and  swingling  tow  have  been  removed 
by  the  men;  to-morrow  the  more  deft  ma- 
nipulations of  the  women  will  prepare  these 
bunches  of  fiber  for  the  little  wheel,  and  granny 
will  card  the  tow  into  bats,  to  be  spun  into 
tow  yarn  on  the  big  wheel.  All  quaff  the  spar- 
kling cider  or  foaming  beer  from  the  briskly 
circulating  pewter  mug,  which  the  last  out  of 
bed  in  the  morning  must  replenish  from  the 
barrel  in  the  cellar." 

One  notices  the  frequent  reference  to  beer 
in  these  old  chronicles.  The  tea,  over  which 
the  colonists  were  to  take  such  a  dramatic 
stand  in  a  hundred  years,  had  not  yet  been  in- 
troduced into  England,  and  neither  had  coffee. 
Forks  had  not  yet  made  their  appearance.  In 
this  admirable  picture  Mr.  Sheldon  does  not 
mention  one  of  the  evening  industries  which 


154         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

was  peculiarly  characteristic  of  the  Plymouth 
Colony.  This  was  the  making  of  clapboards, 
which  with  sassafras  and  beaver  skins,  consti- 
tuted for  many  years  the  principal  cargo  sent 
back  to  England  from  the  Colony.  Another 
point  —  the  size  of  the  families.  The  mother 
of  Governor  William  Phips  had  twenty-one 
sons  and  five  daughters,  and  the  Reverend 
John  Sherman  had  six  children  by  his  first 
wife  and  twenty  by  his  second.  These  were  not 
uncommon  figures  in  the  early  life  of  New 
England;  and  with  so  many  numbers  within 
itself  the  home  life  was  a  center  for  a  very 
complete  and  variegated  industrial  life.  Surely 
it  is  a  long  cry  from  these  kitchen  fireplaces  - 
so  large  that  often  a  horse  had  to  be  driven 
into  the  kitchen  dragging  the  huge  back  log — 
these  immense  families,  to  the  kitchenette  and 
one-child  family  of  to-day! 

This,  then,  was  the  old  Duxbury:  the  Dux- 
bury  of  long,  cold  winters,  privations,  and 
austerity.  Down  by  the  shore  to-day  is  the 
new  Duxbury  —  a  Duxbury  of  automobiles, 
of  business  men's  trains,  of  gay  society  at 


DUXBURY  HOMES  155 

Powder  Point,  where  in  the  winter  is  the  well- 
known  boys'  school  —  a  Duxbury  of  summer 
cottages,  white  and  green  along  the  shore, 
green  and  brown  under  the  pines.  Of  these 
summer  homes  many  are  new:  the  Wright  es- 
tate is  one  of  the  finest  on  the  South  Shore,  and 
the  pleasant,  spacious  dwelling  distinguished 
by  its  handsome  hedge  of  English  privet 
formerly  belonged  to  Fanny  Davenport,  the 
actress.  Others  are  old  houses,  very  tastefully, 
almost  affectionately  remodeled  by  those  for 
whom  the  things  of  the  past  have  a  special 
lure.  These  remodeled  cottages  are,  perhaps, 
the  prettiest  of  all.  Those  very  ancient  land- 
marks, sagging  into  pathetic  disrepair,  present 
a  sorrowful,  albeit  an  artistic,  silhouette 
against  the  sky.  But  these  "new-old"  cot- 
tages, with  ruffled  muslin  curtains  at  the 
small-paned,  antique  windows,  brave  with  a 
shining  knocker  on  the  green-painted  front 
door,  and  gay  with  old-fashioned  gardens  to 
the  side  or  in  the  rear  —  these  are  a  delight  to 
all,  and  an  honor  to  both  past  and  present. 
Surely  the  fair  town  of  Duxbury,  which  so 


156         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

smilingly  enticed  the  Pilgrims  across  the  bay  to 
enjoy  her  sunny  beach  and  rolling  pasture 
lands,  must  be  happy  to-day  as  she  was  then 
to  feel  her  ground  so  deeply  tilled,  and  still  to 
be  so  daintily  adorned  with  homes  and  gardens 
and  with  laughing  life. 


CHAPTER  X 

KINGSTON  AND  ITS  MANUSCRIPTS 

ON  a  charming  eminence  at  two  cross- 
roads, delicately  dappled  by  fine  elm 
shade  and  clasped  by  an  antique  grapevine, 
rests  the  old  Bradford  house.  From  the  main 
road  half  a  mile  away  you  will  see  only  the 
slanting  roof,  half  concealed  by  rolling  pasture 
land,  but  if  you  will  trouble  to  turn  off  from 
the  main  road,  and  if  you  will  not  be  daunted 
by  the  unsavoriness  of  the  immediate  neigh- 
borhood, you  will  find  it  quite  worth  your 
while.  The  house  presents  only  a  casual  side  to 
the  street  —  one  fancies  it  does  not  take  much 
interest  in  its  upstart  neighbors  —  but  imagi- 
nation makes  us  believe  that  it  regards  with 
brooding  tenderness  the  lovely  tidal  river 


158         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

which  winds  away  through  the  marshes  to  the 
sea.  Interesting  as  the  house  is  for  its  archi- 
tectural features  and  for  its  delightful  loca- 
tion—  despite  the  nearness  of  the  passing 
train  —  yet  it  is  on  neither  of  these  points 
that  its  fame  rests. 

In  this  house,  built  in  1674,  and  once  be- 
longing to  Major  John  Bradford,  the  grandson 
of  the  Governor,  was  preserved  for  many 
years  one  of  the  most  valuable  American 
manuscripts  in  existence,  and  one  fated  to  the 
most  romantic  adventures  in  the  annals  of 
Lost  and  Found. 

Bradford's  "History  of  the  Plymouth  Plan- 
tation" is  our  sole  source  of  authentic  informa- 
tion for  the  period  1606-46.  It  is  the  basis  for 
all  historical  study  of  the  early  life  of  the  Pil- 
grims in  this  country,  and  when  we  look  at  the 
quiet  roof  of  the  Bradford  house  to-day  and 
realize  how  narrowly  the  papers  —  for  they 
remained  in  manuscript  form  for  two  hundred 
years  —  escaped  being  lost  forever,  our  minds 
travel  again  over  the  often  told  story. 

The  manuscript,  penned  in  Governor  Brad- 


KINGSTON  159 

ford's  fine  old  hand,  in  a  folio  with  a  parch- 
ment back,  and  with  some  childish  scribblings 
by  little  Mercy  Bradford  on  the  cover,  passed 
at  the  Governor's  death  to  his  son,  and  at  his 
death  to  his  son.  It  reposed  in  the  old  house  at 
which  we  are  now  looking  until  1728,  doubt- 
less regarded  as  something  valuable,  but  not 
in  the  least  appreciated  at  its  full  and  peculiar 
worth.  When  Major  John  Bradford  lent  it  to 
the  Reverend  Thomas  Prince  to  assist  him  in 
his  "Chronological  History  of  New  England," 
he  was  merely  doing  what  he  had  done  many 
times  before.  In  these  days  of  burglar-proof 
safes  and  fire  protection  it  makes  us  shiver  to 
think  of  this  priceless  holograph  passed  from 
hand  to  hand  in  such  a  casual  manner.  But 
it  seems  to  have  escaped  any  mishap  under 
Dr.  Prince,  who  deposited  it  eventually  in  the 
library  of  the  Old  South  Church.  Here  it  re- 
mained for  half  a  century,  still  in  manuscript 
form  and  frequently  referred  to  by  scholars. 
Thomas  Hutchinson  used  it  in  compiling  his 
"History  of  Massachusetts  Bay,"  and  Mather 
used  it  also.  At  the  time  of  the  Revolution  the 


160         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

Old  South  was  looted,  and  this  document 
(along  with  many  others)  disappeared  abso- 
lutely. No  trace  whatever  could  be  found  of 
it:  the  most  exhaustive  search  was  in  vain,  and 
scholars  and  historians  mourned  for  a  loss  that 
was  irreparable.  And  then,  after  half  a  cen- 
tury, after  the  search  had  been  entirely  aban- 
doned, it  was  discovered,  quite  by  chance,  by 
one  who  fortunately  knew  its  value,  tucked 
into  the  Library  of  Fulham  Palace  in  London. 
After  due  rejoicing  on  the  American  side  and 
due  deliberation  on  the  English  side  of  the 
water,  it  was  very  properly  and  very  politely 
returned  to  this  country  in  1897.  Now  it  rests 
after  its  career  of  infinite  hazard,  in  a  case  in 
the  Boston  State  House,  elaborately  protected 
from  fire  and  theft,  from  any  accidental  or 
premeditated  harm,  and  Kingston  must  con- 
tent itself  with  a  copy  in  Pilgrim  Hall  at 
Plymouth. 

Kingston's  history  commences  with  a  manu- 
script and  continues  in  the  same  form.  If  you 
would  know  the  legends,  the  traditions,  the 
events  which  mark  this  ancient  town,  you  will 


KINGSTON  161 

have  to  turn  to  records,  diaries,  memoranda, 
memorial  addresses  and  sermons,  many  of 
them  never  published. 

It  is  rather  odd  that  this  serene  old  place, 
discovered  only  two  or  three  days  after  the 
landing  of  the  Pilgrims  at  Plymouth,  is  so 
devoid  of  a  printed  career.  As  soon  as  the 
Pilgrims  had  explored  the  spot,  they  put  them- 
selves on  record  as  having  "a  great  liking  to 
plant  in  it"  instead  of  in  Plymouth.  But 
they  decided  against  it  because  it  lay  too  far 
from  their  fishing  and  was  "so  encompassed 
with  woods,"  that  they  feared  danger  from 
the  savages.  It  was  very  soon  settled,  however, 
and  remained  as  the  north  end  of  Plymouth 
for  a  hundred  and  six  years,  until  1726.  Gov- 
ernor Bradford  writes,  in  regard  to  its  colo- 
nization : 

"  Ye  people  of  ye  plantation  begane  to  grow 
in  their  outward  estate  .  .  .  and  as  their 
stocks  increased  and  ye  increase  vendible,  ther 
was  no  longer  any  holding  them  togeather,  but 
now  they  must  of  necessitoe  goe  to  their 
great  lots:  they  could  not  otherwise  keep 


162         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

catle;  and  having  oxen  grown  they  must  have 
land  for  plowing  and  tillage.  And  no  man  now 
thought  he  could  live  except  he  had  catle  and 
a  great  deal  of  ground  to  keep  them:  all  striv- 
ing to  increase  their  stocks.  By  which  means 
they  were  scattered  all  over  ye  bay,  quickly, 
and  ye  towne,  in  which  they  had  lived  com- 
pactly till  now  [1632]  was  left  very  thine,  and 
in  a  short  time  almost  desolate." 

Governor  Bradford  seems  to  deplore  this 
moving  out  of  Plymouth,  but  as  a  matter  of 
fact  he  was  among  the  first  to  go,  and  his 
estate  on  Jones  River  comprised  such  a  goodly 
portion  of  what  is  now  Kingston  that  when 
he  died  he  was  the  richest  man  in  the  Colony! 
A  boulder  marks  the  place  which  he,  with  that 
unerring  eye  for  a  fine  view  which  distinguished 
the  early  settlers,  chose  for  his  estate.  From 
here  one  catches  a  glimpse  of  water,  open 
fields,  trees,  the  Myles  Standish  Monument 
to  the  left,  the  sound  of  the  passing  automo- 
biles behind.  The  distant  smokestacks  would 
be  unfamiliar  to  Governor  Bradford's  eye,  but 
the  fragrant  Kingston  air  which  permeates  it 


KINGSTON  163 

all  would  greet  him  as  sweetly  to-day  as  it  did 
three  hundred  years  ago. 

Governor  Bradford,  who  was  Governor  for 
thirty-seven  years,  was  a  man  of  remarkable 
erudition.  Cotton  Mather  says  of  him:  "The 
Dutch  tongue  was  become  almost  as  vernacu- 
lar to  him  as  the  English;  the  French  tongue 
he  could  also  manage;  the  Latin  and  the  Greek 
he  had  mastered;  but  the  Hebrew  he  most  of 
all  studied."  Therefore  if  the  curious  spelling 
of  his  history  strikes  us  as  unscholarly,  we 
must  remember  that  at  that  time  there  was 
no  fixed  standard  for  English  orthography. 
Queen  Elizabeth  employed  seven  different 
spellings  for  the  word  "sovereign"  and  Leices- 
ter rendered  his  own  name  in  eight  different 
ways.  It  was  by  no  means  a  mark  of  illiteracy 
to  spell  not  only  unlike  your  neighbor,  but  un- 
like yourself  on  the  line  previous. 

But  it  is  more  than  quaint  diction  and  fan- 
tastic spelling  which  fascinates  us  as  we  turn 
over,  not  only  the  leaves  of  Bradford's  famous 
history,  but  the  pile  of  fading  records  of  vari- 
ous kinds  of  this  once  prosperous  shipbuilding 


164         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

town.  The  records  of  Kingston  are  valuable, 
not  only  because  they  tell  the  tale  of  this  par- 
ticular spot,  but  because  they  are  delightfully 
typical  of  all  the  South  Shore  towns.  The  yel- 
lowing diaries  mention  crude  offenses,  crude 
chastisements;  give  scraps  of  genealogies  as 
broken  as  the  families  themselves  are  now 
broken  and  scattered;  lament  over  one  daugh- 
ter of  the  Puritans  who  took  the  veil  in  a 
Roman  Catholic  convent;  sternly  relate,  in 
Rabelaisian  frankness,  dark  sins,  punished 
with  mediaeval  justice.  In  fact,  these  righteous 
early  colonists  seemed  to  find  a  genuine  satis- 
faction in  devising  punishments,  and  in  putting 
them  into  practice.  We  read  that  the  stocks 
(also  called  "bilbaos"  because  they  were  for- 
merly manufactured  in  Bilbao,  in  Spain)  were 
first  occupied  by  the  man  who  had  made 
them,  as  the  court  decided  that  his  charge  for 
the  work  was  excessive!  There  were  wooden 
cages  in  which  criminals  were  confined  and 
exposed  to  public  view;  whipping-posts;  cleft 
sticks  for  profane  tongues.  Drunkenness  was 
punished  by  disfranchisement;  the  blasphemer 


KINGSTON  165 

and  the  heretics  were  branded  with  a  hot 
iron. 

Let  us  look  at  some  of  these  old  records,  not 
all  of  them  as  ferocious  as  this,  but  interesting 
for  the  minutiae  which  they  preserve  and  which 
makes  it  possible  for  us  to  reconstruct  some- 
thing of  that  atmosphere  of  the  past.  It  was 
ninety-six  years  after  the  settlement  at  Ply- 
mouth that  Kingston  made  its  first  request  for 
a  separation.  It  was  not  granted  for  almost  a 
decade,  but  from  then  on  the  ecclesiastical 
records  furnish  us  with  a  great  deal  of  in- 
timate and  chatty  material.  For  instance,  we 
learn  in  1719  that  Isaac  Holmes  was  to  have 
"20  shillings  for  sweeping,  opening  and  shut- 
ting of  the  doors  and  casements  of  the  meeting 
house  for  1  year,"  which  throws  some  light 
upon  sextons'  salaries ! 

The  minute  directions  as  to  the  placing  of 
the  pews  in  the  meeting-house  (1720)  contain 
a  pungent  element  of  personality.  Major  John 
Bradford  is  "next  to  the  pulpit  stairs";  Elisha 
Bradford  on  the  left  "as  you  go  in";  Ben- 
jamin Eaton's  place  is  "between  minister's 


166         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

stairs  and  west  door";  while  Peter  West  is 
ingloriously,  and  for  what  reason  we  know  not, 
relegated  to  the  gallery  "  in  the  front,  next  to 
the  stairs,  behind  the  women." 

It  is  significant  to  note  (1728)  that  seats 
are  built  at  each  end  above  the  galleries  for  the 
Indians  and  negroes. 

Fish  laws,  rewards  for  killing  wild  cats, 
bickerings  with  the  minister,  and  brief  mention 
of  the  death  of  many  women  at  an  early  age  — 
after  having  given  birth  to  an  incredible  num- 
ber of  children  —  fill  up  pages  and  pages. 

The  eye  rests  upon  a  resolution  passed  (1771) 
to  "allow  Benjamin  Cook  the  sum  of  8  shillings 
for  a  coffin,  and  liquor  at  the  funeral  of  James 
Howland."  They  might  not  believe  in  prayers 
for  the  dead  in  those  days,  but  there  was  evi- 
dently no  reason  why  the  living  should  not 
receive  some  cheer! 

How  is  this  for  the  minister's  salary?  The 
Reverend  Doctor  Willis  (1780)  is  to  receive 
eighty  pounds  a  year,  to  be  paid  partly  in 
Indian  corn,  rye,  pork,  and  beef.  Ten  cords  of 
wood  yearly  are  allowed  him  "until  he  have 


KINGSTON  167 

a  family,  then  twenty  cords,  are  to  be  al- 
lowed, the  said  wood  to  be  delivered  at  his 
door." 

Mr.  Levi  Bradford  agrees  to  make  the  whip- 
ping-post and  stocks  for  nine  shillings,  if  the 
town  will  find  the  iron  (1790). 

The  wage  paid  for  a  day's  labor  on  the  high- 
way (1791)  was  as  follows:  For  a  day's  labor 
by  a  man,  2  shillings,  8  pence;  for  a  yoke  of 
oxen,  2  shillings;  for  a  horse,  1  shilling,  6  pence; 
for  a  cart,  1  shilling,  4  pence.  One  notes  the 
prices  are  for  an  eight-hour  day. 

However,  the  high  cost  of  living  began  to 
make  itself  felt  even  then.  How  else  account 
for  the  statement  (1796)  that  Mr.  Parris,  the 
schoolmaster,  has  been  allowed  fifty  shillings 
in  addition  to  his  salary  "considering  the  in- 
crease in  the  price  of  provisions"? 

There  seems  to  have  been  a  great  celebration 
on  the  occasion  of  raising  the  second  meeting- 
house in  Kingston  (1798).  One  old  account 
reads:  "Booths  were  erected  on  the  field  oppo- 
site, and  all  kinds  of  liquor  and  refreshment 
were  sold  freely."  After  the  frame  was  up  a 


168         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

procession  was  formed  of  those  who  were 
employed  in  the  raising,  consisting  of  car- 
penters, sailors,  blacksmiths,  etc.,  each  taking 
some  implement  of  his  trade  such  as  axes, 
rules,  squares,  tackles  and  ropes.  They  walked 
to  the  Great  Bridge  and  back  to  the  tem- 
porary building  that  had  been  used  for  wor- 
ship (the  Quail  Trap)  while  the  new  one  was 
being  planned.  Here  they  all  had  punch  and 
an  "hour  or  so  of  jollity." 

If  the  women's  lives  were  conspicuously 
short,  it  was  not  so  with  the  men.  Ebenezer 
Cobb,  who  died  in  1801  in  the  one  hundred 
and  eighth  year  of  his  age,  had  lived  in  no 
less  than  three  centuries,  having  seen  six  years 
in  the  seventeenth,  the  whole  of  the  eight- 
eenth, and  a  year  of  the  nineteenth. 

The  minister's  tax  is  separated  from  the 
other  town  taxes  in  1812  —  thus  even  in  this 
little  village  is  reflected  the  great  movement 
of  separation  of  Church  and  State.  In  1851 
when  we  read  of  a  Unitarian  church  being 
built  we  realize  that  the  Puritan  regime  is 
over  in  New  England. 


KINGSTON  169 

Thus  with  the  assistance  of  the  Pelegs  and 
Hezekiahs,  the  Zadocks,  Ichabods,  and  Ze- 
nases  —  names  which  for  some  absurd  and 
irreverent  reason  suggest  a  picture  puzzle  — 
we  manage  to  piece  together  scraps  of  the 
Kingston  of  long  ago. 

We  must  confess  to  some  relief  at  the  inevi- 
table conclusion  that  such  study  brings  — 
namely,  that  the  early  settlers  were  not  the 
unblemished  prigs  and  paragons  tradition  has 
so  fondly  branded  them.  They  seem  to  have 
been  human  enough  —  erring  enough,  if  we 
take  these  records  penned  by  themselves. 
However,  for  any  such  iconoclastic  observa- 
tion it  is  reassuring  to  have  the  judgment  of  so 
careful  a  historian  as  Charles  Francis  Adams. 
He  says: 

"That  the  earlier  generations  of  Massachu- 
setts were  either  more  law-abiding  or  more 
self -restrained  than  the  later  is  a  proposition 
which  accords  neither  with  tradition  nor  with 
the  reason  of  things.  The  habits  of  those  days 
were  simpler  than  those  of  the  present:  they 
were  also  essentially  grosser.  ..." 


170         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

He  then  gives  a  dozen  pages  or  so  of  hith-' 
erto  unpublished  church  records,  gathered 
from  as  many  typical  Massachusetts  towns, 
which  throw  an  undeniable  and  unflattering 
light  on  the  social  habits  of  that  early  period. 
As  explicit  and  public  confession  before  the 
church  congregation  was  enforced,  these 
church  records  contain  startlingly  graphic 
statements  of  drunkenness,  blasphemy,  steal- 
ing, and  immorality  in  all  its  various  phases. 

There  are  countless  church  records  which 
duplicate  this  one  of  the  ordination  of  a  Mas- 
sachusetts pastor  in  1729:  "6  Barrels  and  a 
half  of  Cyder,  28  gallons  of  wine,  2  gallons  of 
Brandy,  and  4  of  rum,  loaf  sugar,  lime  juice 
and  pipes,"  all,  presumably,  consumed  at  the 
time  and  on  the  spot  of  the  ordination.  Even 
the  most  pessimistic  must  admit  that  long  be- 
fore our  prohibition  era  we  had  traveled  far 
beyond  such  practices. 

The  immorality  seems  to  have  been  the 
natural  reaction  from  morbid  spiritual  excite- 
ment induced  by  religious  revivals.  Poor  Gov- 
ernor Bradford  never  grasped  this,  and  we  find 


KINGSTON  171 

him  lamenting  (1642):  "Marvilous  it  may  be 
to  see  and  consider  how  some  kind  of  wicked- 
ness did  grow  and  break  forth  here  in  a  land 
where  the  same  was  much  witnessed  against, 
and  so  narrowly  looked  on  and  severely  pun- 
ished when  it  was  known." 

We  hear  the  same  plaint  from  Jonathan 
Edwards  a  century  later. 

It  is  well  to  honor  the  Pilgrims  for  their 
many  stanch  and  admirable  qualities,  but  it  is 
only  fair  to  recall  that  the  morbidity  of  their 
religion  made  them  less  healthy-minded  than 
we,  and  that  many  of  their  practices,  such  as 
the  well-recognized  custom  of  "bundling," 
were  indications  of  a  people  holding  far  lower 
moral  standards  than  ours. 

The  old  sermons,  diaries,  biographies,  and 
records  lie  on  dusty  shelves  now,  and  few  pause 
to  read  them,  and  in  Kingston  no  one  yet  has 
gathered  them  into  a  local  history.  There  are 
other  records  traced,  not  in  sand,  but  on  the 
soil  that  may  also  be  read  by  any  who  pass. 
Some  remnants  of  the  trenches  and  terraces 
dug  by  the  quota  of  Arcadian  refugees  who 


172         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

fell  to  Kingston's  share  after  the  pathetic 
flight  from  Nova  Scotia  may  still  be  seen  — 
claimed  by  some  to  be  the  first  irrigation  at- 
tempt in  America. 

The  old  "Massachusetts  Payth"  which  fol- 
lows the  road  more  or  less  closely  beyond 
Kingston  is  traced  with  difficulty  and  uncer- 
tainty in  Kingston  itself,  but  there  is  an- 
other highway  as  clear  to-day  as  it  was  three 
hundred  years  ago.  And  this  is  the  lovely 
tidal  river,  named  after  the  master  of  the 
Mayflower,  up  which  used  to  come  and  go  not 
only  many  ships  of  commerce,  but,  in  the 
evenings  after  life  had  become  less  austere, 
boatloads  of  merrymakers  from  Plymouth  and 
Duxbury  to  attend  the  balls  given  at  what  was 
originally  the  King's  Town. 

It  has  carried  much  traffic  in  its  day,  that 
river  which  now  winds  so  gracefully  down  to 
the  sea,  and  which  we  see  so  well  from  the 
yard  of  the  old  Bradford  house.  Down  it 
floated  the  vessels  made  by  Kingston  men,  and 
out  of  it  was  dug  much  bog  iron  for  the  use  of 
Washington's  artillery. 


KINGSTON  173 

Monk's  Hill  —  which  the  old  records  call 
Mont's  Hill  Chase,  a  name  supposed  to  have 
been  applied  to  a  hunt  in  England  —  could 
tell  a  story  too,  if  one  had  ears  to  hear.  The 
highest  land  in  Kingston,  during  the  Revolu- 
tion it  was  one  of  the  points  where  a  beacon 
fire  was  lighted  to  alarm  the  town  in  case  of 
invasion  by  the  enemy. 

Kingston  is  not  without  history,  although 
its  manuscripts  lie  long  untouched  upon  li- 
brary shelves,  and  its  historic  soil  is  tramped 
over  by  unheeding  feet.  That  the  famous 
manuscript  which  was  its  greatest  historical 
contribution  has  been  taken  away  from  it,  is 
no  loss  in  the  truest  sense  of  the  word,  for  this 
monumental  work,  which  belongs  to  no  one 
place,  but  to  the  country  as  a  whole,  is  prop- 
erly preserved  at  the  State  House. 

Kingston  seems  amenable  to  this  arrange- 
ment, just  as  she  seems  entirely  willing  that 
Plymouth  should  claim  the  first  century  of  her 
career.  When  one  is  sure  of  one's  heritage  and 
beauty,  one  does  not  clamor  for  recognition; 
one  does  not  even  demand  a  printed  history. 


174         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

It  is  quality,  not  quantity,  that  counts,  and 
even  if  nothing  more  is  ever  written  in  or  about 
this  dear  old  town,  Kingston  will  have  made 
a  distinguished  contribution  to  American  his- 
tory and  literature. 


CHAPTER  XI 
PLYMOUTH 

ONE  of  the  favorite  pictures  of  New 
Englanders,  and  one  which  hangs  in 
innumerable  dining-rooms  and  halls,  is  by 
Boughton,  the  popular  American  artist,  and 
is  named  "The  Return  of  the  Mayflower."  I 
suppose  thousands  of  New  England  children 
have  gazed  wonderingly  at  this  picture,  which, 
contrary  to  the  modern  canons  of  art,  "tells  a 
story,"  and  many  of  those  naive  minds  have 
puzzled  as  to  how  those  poor  Pilgrims,  who 
had  no  tea  or  coffee  or  milk  or  starch,  managed 
to  appear  so  well  fed  and  so  contented,  and  so 
marvelously  neat  and  clean.  The  inexhaustible 


176         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

bag  which  inevitably  appeared  at  crucial 
moments  in  the  career  of  "Swiss  Family  Rob- 
inson" is  nowhere  mentioned  in  the  early 
chronicles  of  the  Plymouth  Plantation,  and 
the  precise  manner  in  which  a  small  vessel  of  a 
hundred  and  eighty  tons,  carrying  a  hundred 
passengers,  and  all  the  innumerable  cradles, 
chairs,  and  highboys  which  have  since  flooded 
the  museums  as  "genuine  relics"  of  that  first 
voyage,  could  also  have  brought  sufficient 
washboards,  soap,  and  flatirons  to  have  kept 
the  charming  costumes  so  immaculate  is  a 
mystery  which  will  probably  never  be  solved 
—  especially  since  the  number  of  relics  ap- 
pears to  increase  instead  of  diminish  with  the 
passage  of  time. 

However,  that  is  a  mere  trifle.  Mr.  Bough- 
ton,  in  catching  this  touching  and  dramatic 
moment  in  the  history  of  the  Plymouth  Col- 
ony, has  rendered  a  graphic  service  to  us  all, 
and  if  we  could  stand  upon  the  little  plateau 
on  which  this  man  and  maid  are  standing,  and 
could  look  out  with  them  —  we  should  see  — 
what  should  we  see? 


PLYMOUTH  177 

We  may,  indeed,  stand  upon  the  little  pla- 
teau —  possibly  it  is  no  other  than  the  base  of 
Cole's  Hill,  that  pathetic  spot  on  which  the 
dead  were  buried  those  first  sad  months,  the 
ground  above  being  leveled  and  planted  with 
corn  lest  the  Indians  should  count  the  number 
of  the  lost  —  and  look  out  upon  that  selfsame 
harbor,  but  the  sight  which  meets  our  eyes 
will  be  a  very  different  one  from  that  which 
met  theirs.  Let  us,  if  we  can,  for  the  space  of 
half  an  hour  or  so,  imagine  that  we  are  stand- 
ing beside  this  Pilgrim  man  and  maid,  on  the 
day  on  which  Mr.  Boughton  portrayed  them. 

Instead  of  1920  it  is  1621.  It  is  the  5th  of 
April:  the  winter  of  terrifying  sicknesses  and 
loss  has  passed;  of  the  hundred  souls  which 
left  England  the  autumn  previously  more 
than  a  half  have  died.  The  Mayflower  which 
brought  them  all  over,  and  which  has  re- 
mained in  the  harbor  all  winter,  is  now,  having 
made  repairs  and  taking  advantage  of  the 
more  clement  weather,  trimming  her  sails  for 
the  thirty-one  days'  return  voyage  to  Eng- 
land. They  may  return  with  her,  if  they  wish, 


178         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

any  or  all  of  the  sturdy  little  band;  they  may 
leave  the  small,  smoky  log  cabins;  the  scanty 
fare  of  corn  and  fish;  the  harassing  fear  of  the 
Indians;  they  may  leave  the  privations,  the 
cramped  quarters,  and  return  to  civilized  life 
—  to  friends  and  relatives,  to  blooming  Eng- 
lish hedgerows  and  orderly  English  churches. 
But  no  one  —  no,  not  a  single  one  returns ! 
They  have  thrown  in  their  lot  with  the  new 
country  —  the  new  life.  Their  nearest  civilized 
neighbors  are  the  French  of  Nova  Scotia,  five 
hundred  miles  to  the  north,  and  the  English 
of  Virginia  five  hundred  miles  to  the  south. 
But  they  are  undaunted.  And  yet  —  who  can 
doubt  that  as  they  gaze  out  upon  the  familiar 
sails  —  the  last  banner  between  themselves 
and  their  ancestral  home,  and  as  they  see 
them  sailing  out  and  out  until  they  sink  below 
the  verge  of  sea  and  sky,  the  tears  "rise  in  the 
heart  and  gather  to  the  eyes"  in  "thinking  of 
the  days  that  are  no  more." 

Three  hundred  years  ago !  The  same  harbor 
now  as  then,  with  the  highland  of  Cape  Cod 
dimly  outlined  in  the  gray  eastern  horizon; 


PLYMOUTH  179 

the  bluffs  of  Manomet  nearer  on  the  right;  op- 
posite them,  on  the  left,  Duxbury  Beach  comes 
down,  and  ends  in  the  promontory  which  holds 
the  Gurnet  Lights.  Clarke's  Island  —  already 
so  named  —  lies  as  it  does  to-day,  but  save 
for  these  main  topographical  outlines  the  Ply- 
mouth at  which  we  are  looking  in  our  imagina- 
tion would  be  quite  unrecognizable  to  us. 

There  is  a  little  row  of  houses  —  seven  of 
them  —  that  is  all.  Log  cabins,  two-roomed, 
of  the  crudest  build,  thatched  with  wildgrass, 
the  chinks  between  the  logs  filled  with  clay, 
the  floors  made  of  split  logs;  lighted  at  night 
with  pieces  of  pitch  pine.  Each  lot  measures 
three  rods  long  and  a  rod  and  a  half  wide,  and 
they  run  on  either  side  of  the  single  street  (the 
first  laid  out  in  New  England,  and  ever  after- 
ward to  be  known  as  Ley  den  Street),  which, 
in  its  turn,  is  parallel  to  the  Town  Brook. 
There  is  no  glass  in  these  cabin  windows:  oiled 
paper  suffices;  the  household  implements  are 
of  the  fewest.  The  most  primitive  modern 
camping  expedition  is  replete  with  luxuries  of 
which  this  colony  knows  nothing.  They  have 


180         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

no  cattle  of  any  kind,  which  means  no  milk  or 
butter;  they  have  no  poultry  or  eggs.  Twenty- 
six  acres  of  cultivated  ground  —  twenty-one 
of  corn,  the  other  five  of  wheat,  rye,  and  bar- 
ley —  have  been  quite  enough  for  the  twenty- 
one  men  and  six  boys  (all  who  were  well 
enough  to  work)  to  handle,  but  it  is  not  a  great 
deal  to  feed  them  all.  At  one  end  of  the  street 
stands  the  common  house,  twenty  feet  square, 
where  the  church  services  are  held;  the  store- 
house is  near  the  head  of  the  pier;  and  at  the 
top  of  what  is  now  Burial  Hill  is  the  timber 
fort,  twenty  by  twenty,  built  the  January  be- 
fore by  Myles  Standish.  In  April,  1621,  this  is 
all  there  is  to  what  is  now  the  prosperous  town 
of  Plymouth. 

And  yet  —  not  entirely.  There  are  a  few 
things  left  in  the  Plymouth  of  to-day  which 
were  in  the  Plymouth  of  three  hundred  years 
ago.  If  our  man  and  maid  should  turn  into  Pil- 
grim Hall  their  eyes  would  fall  upon  some  of 
the  selfsame  objects  which  were  familiar  sights 
to  them  in  1621.  Those  sturdy  oaken  chairs 
of  Governor  Carver,  Elder  Brewster,  and  Ed- 


PLYMOUTH  181 

ward  Winslow;  the  square,  hooded  wooden 
cradle  brought  over  by  Dr.  Samuel  Fuller; 
and  the  well-preserved  reed  one  which  rocked 
Peregrine  White,  and  whose  quaint  stanchness 
suggests  the  same  Dutch  influence  which  char- 
acterizes the  spraddling  octagonal  windmills 
—  they  would  quickly  recognize  all  of  these. 
Some  of  the  books,  too,  chiefly  religious,  some 
in  classic  tongues,  William  Bradford's  Geneva 
Bible  printed  in  1592,  and  others  bearing  the 
mark  of  1615,  would  be  well  known  to  them, 
although  we  must  not  take  it  for  granted  that 
the  lady  —  or  the  man  either  —  can  read. 
Well-worn  the  Bibles  are,  however,  and  we 
need  not  think  that  lack  of  learning  prevented 
any  of  the  Pilgrims  from  imbibing  both  the 
letter  and  spirit  of  the  Book.  Those  who  could 
write  were  masters  of  a  fine,  flowing  script 
that  shames  our  modern  scrawl,  as  is  well 
testified  by  the  Patent  of  the  Plymouth  Col- 
ony —  the  oldest  state  document  in  New 
England  —  as  well  as  by  the  final  will  and 
various  deeds  of  Peregrine  White,  and  many 
others.  The  small,  stiff  baby  shoes  which  en- 


182         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

cased  the  infant  feet  of  Josiah  Winslow,  the 
son  of  Governor  Winslow  and  destined  to  be 
Governor  himself,  are  of  a  pattern  familiar  to 
our  man  and  maid,  as  are  the  now  tarnished 
swords  of  Carver,  Brewster,  and  Standish. 
Probably  they  have  puzzled,  as  we  are  still 
doing,  over  the  Kufic  or  Arabic  inscriptions 
on  the  last.  The  monster  kettle  and  generous 
pewter  plate  brought  over  by  the  doughty 
Captain  would  be  too  well  known  to  them 
to  attract  their  attention,  as  would  be  the 
various  tankards  and  goblets,  and  the  beau- 
tiful mortar  and  pestle  brought  over  by  Wins- 
low.  But  the  two-tined  fork  they  would  regard 
with  curiosity,  for  forks  were  not  used,  even 
in  England,  until  1650.  The  teapots,  too, 
which  look  antiquated  enough  to  us,  would 
fill  them  with  wonder,  for  tea  was  practically 
unknown  in  both  colony  and  mother  country 
until  1657.  Those  fragments  of  rude  agricul- 
tural implements  which  we  treasure  would  not 
interest  our  man  and  maid  for  whom  they  are 
ordinary  sights,  and  neither  would  they  re- 
gard with  the  same  historical  interest  that 


PLYMOUTH  183 

moves  us  the  bits  of  stone  from  the  Scrooby 
Manor  in  England,  the  bricks  from  the  old 
pier  at  Delft  Haven  in  Holland,  or  the  piece 
of  carved  pew-back  from  the  old  church  at 
Scrooby.  Possibly  our  Pilgrim  maid  is  one  of 
the  few  who  can  write,  and  if  so,  her  fingers 
have  doubtless  fashioned  a  sampler  as  exqui- 
site as  that  of  Lora  Standish,  whose  meek 
docility  and  patient  workmanship  are  forever 
preserved  in  her  cross-stitched  words. 

From  all  around  the  walls  of  Pilgrim  Hall 
look  down  fine,  stern  old  portraits,  real  and 
imaginary,  of  the  early  colonists.  Modern 
critics  may  bicker  over  the  authenticity  of  the 
white  bull  on  which  Priscilla  Alden  is  taking 
her  wedding  trip;  they  may  quarrel  over  the 
fidelity  of  the  models  and  paintings  of  the 
Mayflower,  and  antiquarians  may  diligently 
unearth  bits  of  bone  to  substantiate  their  pet 
theories.  Our  man  and  maid  could  tell  us  all, 
but,  alas,  their  voices  are  so  far  away  we  can- 
not hear  them.  They  will  never  speak  the 
words  which  will  settle  any  of  the  oft-disputed 
points,  and,  unfortunately,  they  will  leave  us 


184         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

forever  to  argue  about  the  truth  of  the  famous 
Plymouth  Rock. 

To  present  the  well-worn  story  of  Plymouth 
Rock  from  an  angle  calculated  to  rouse  even  a 
semblance  of  fresh  interest  is  comparable  to 
offering  a  well-fed  man  a  piece  of  bread,  and 
expecting  him  to  be  excited  over  it  as  a  nov- 
elty. Bread  is  the  staff  of  life,  to  be  sure,  but  it 
is  also  accepted  as  matter  of  course  in  the  aver- 
age diet,  and  the  story  of  Plymouth  Rock  is 
part  and  parcel  of  every  school-book  and 
guide-book  in  the  country.  The  distinguished, 
if  somewhat  irreverent,  visitor,  who,  after  be- 
ing reduced  to  partial  paralysis  by  the  oft- 
repeated  tale,  ejaculated  fervently  that  he 
wished  the  rock  had  landed  on  the  Pilgrims 
instead  of  the  Pilgrims  on  the  rock,  voiced  the 
first  original  remark  about  this  historic  relic 
which  has  refreshed  our  ears  for  many  years. 
However,  as  Americans  we  are  thoroughly 
imbued  with  the  theory  on  which  our  adver- 
tising is  based.  Although  it  would  seem  that 
every  housekeeper  in  the  land  had  been  kept 
fully  informed  for  forty  years  of  the  advan- 


PLYMOUTH  185 

tages  incident  to  the  use  of  a  certain  soap,  the 
manufacturers  still  persist  in  reciting  these 
benefits.  And  why?  Because  new  housekeepers 
come  into  existence  with  each  new  day.  So,  if 
there  be  any  man  who  comes  to  Plymouth 
who  does  not  know  the  story  of  Plymouth 
Rock,  it  is  here  set  down  for  him,  as  accurately 
and  briefly  as  possible. 

This  rock  —  which  is  an  oval,  glacial  boulder 
of  about  seven  tons  —  was  innocently  rearing 
its  massive,  hoary  head  from  the  water  one 
day  in  December,  1620,  as  it  had  done  for 
several  thousand  years  previously  in  unmo- 
lested oblivion.  While  engaged  in  this  ponder- 
ous but  harmless  occupation  it  was  sighted  by 
a  boatful  of  men  and  women  —  the  first  who 
had  ever  chosen  to  land  on  this  particular  part 
of  the  coast.  The  rock  presented  a  moderately 
dry  footing,  and  they  sailed  up  to  it,  and  a 
charming  young  woman,  attired,  according  to 
our  amiable  painter,  in  the  cleanest  and  fresh- 
est of  aprons  and  the  most  demure  of  caps,  set 
a  daintily  shod  foot  upon  it  and  leaped  lightly 
to  shore.  This  was  Mary  Chilton,  and  she  was 


186         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

promptly  followed  by  an  equally  trig  young 
man  —  John  Alden.  Thus  commenced  the 
founding  of  Plymouth  Colony,  and  thus  was 
sown  the  seed  of  innumerable  pictures,  poems, 
stories,  and  sermons. 

Now  the  Pilgrims  themselves,  in  none  of 
their  various  accounts,  ever  mention  the  in- 
cident of  the  landing  described  above,  or  the 
rock.  In  fact  they  are  so  entirely  silent  about 
it  that  historians  —  besides  discrediting  the 
pretty  part  about  Mary  Chilton  and  John 
Alden,  in  the  brusque  fashion  characteristic 
of  historians  —  have  pooh-poohed  the  whole 
story,  arguing  that  the  rock  was  altogether 
too  far  away  from  the  land  to  be  a  logical  step- 
ping-place,  and  referring  to  the  only  authentic 
record  of  that  first  landing,  which  merely 
reads:  "They  sounded  ye  harbor  &  founde  it 
fitt  for  shipping,  and  marched  into  ye  land 
&  found  diverse  cornfeilds  &  little  running 
brooks,  a  place  fitt  for  situation:  at  least  it  was 
ye  best  they  could  find."  The  Pilgrims,  then, 
were  quite  oblivious  of  the  rock,  the  historians 
are  entirely  skeptical  concerning  it,  and  the 


PLYMOUTH  187 

following  generation  so  indifferent  to  the  tra- 
dition which  was  gradually  formulating,  that 
in  the  course  of  events  it  was  half -covered  with 
a  wharf,  and  used  as  a  doorstep  to  a  ware- 
house. 

This  was  an  ignominious  position  for  a 
magnificent  free  boulder  which  had  been  a 
part  of  the  untrammeled  sea  and  land  for 
centuries,  but  this  lowly  occupation  was  in- 
finitely less  trying  than  the  fate  which  was 
awaiting.  At  the  time  the  wharf  was  suggested, 
the  idea  that  the  rock  was  the  actual  landing- 
place  of  the  first  colonists  had  gained  such 
momentum  that  a  party  was  formed  in  its 
defense.  An  aged  man,  Thomas  Faunce,  was 
produced.  He  was  ninety-five  and  confined  to 
an  armchair.  He  had  not  been  born  until 
twenty-six  years  after  the  landing  of  the  Pil- 
grims; his  father,  whom  he  quoted  as  declar- 
ing this  to  be  the  original  rock  and  identical 
landing-place,  had  not  even  come  over  in  the 
Mayflower,  but  in  the  Anne.  However,  this 
venerable  Canute,  carried  to  the  water's  edge 
in  his  armchair,  in  the  presence  of  many  wit- 


188         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

nesses,  assured  them  and  all  posterity  that 
this  was  the  genuine,  undeniable  landing-place 
of  the  Pilgrims.  And  from  that  moment  the 
belief  was  so  firmly  set  in  the  American  mind 
that  no  power  could  possibly  dislodge  it.  In 
accordance  with  this  suddenly  acquired  re- 
spect, it  was  decided  to  move  the  huge  bulk 
to  the  more  conspicuous  location  of  the  Town 
Square.  When  it  was  lifted  from  its  prehis- 
toric bed,  it  broke,  and  this  was  hailed  as  a 
propitious  omen  of  the  coming  separation  of 
the  Colonies  from  the  mother  country.  Only 
the  upper  half  was  dragged  up  to  the  Town 
Square  —  a  process  which  took  twenty  yoke 
of  oxen  and  was  accompanied  by  wild  huzzah- 
ing.  There  the  poor,  broken  thing  lay  in  the 
sun,  at  the  bottom  of  the  Liberty  Pole  on 
which  was  flying,  "Liberty  or  Death."  But 
its  career  as  a  public  feature  had  only  begun. 
It  remained  in  the  square  until  1834,  and 
then  on  July  4  it  was  decided  to  drag  it  to  a 
still  more  conspicuous  place.  So  with  a  formal 
procession,  it  was  again  hoisted  and  hauled 
and  set  down  in  front  of  the  entrance  porch  of 


PLYMOUTH  189 

Pilgrim  Hall,  where  it  lay  like  a  captive  mam- 
moth animal  for  curious  folk  to  gaze  at.  Here 
it  was  granted  almost  half  a  century  of  un- 
disturbed if  not  secluded  slumber.  But  the 
end  was  not  yet.  In  1880  it  was  once  more  laid 
hold  of  and  carted  back  to  its  original  setting, 
and  welded  without  ceremony,  to  the  part 
from  which  it  had  been  sundered.  Now  all  of 
this  seems  quite  enough  —  more  than  enough 
—  of  pitiless  publicity,  for  one  old  rock  whose 
only  offense  had  been  to  be  lifting  its  head 
above  the  water  on  a  December  day  in  1620. 
But  no  —  just  as  the  mind  of  man  takes  a 
singular  satisfaction  in  gazing  at  mummies 
preserved  in  human  semblance  in  the  un- 
earthly stillness  of  the  catacombs,  so  the  once 
massive  boulder  —  now  carefully  mended  — 
was  placed  upon  the  neatest  of  concrete  bases, 
and  over  it  was  reared,  from  the  designs  of 
Hammatt  Billings,  the  ugliest  granite  canopy 
imaginable  —  in  which  canopy,  to  complete 
the  grisly  atmosphere  of  the  catacombs,  were 
placed  certain  human  bones  found  in  an  ex- 
ploration of  Cole's  Hill.  Bleak  and  homeless 


190         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

the  old  rock  now  lies  passively  in  forlorn  state 
under  its  atrocious  shelter,  behind  a  strong 
iron  grating,  and  any  of  a  dozen  glib  street 
urchins,  in  syllables  flavored  with  Cork,  or 
Genoese,  or  Polish  accents,  will,  for  a  penny, 
relate  the  facts  substantially  as  I  have  stated 
them.1 

It  is  easy  to  be  unsympathetic  in  regard  to 
any  form  of  fetishism  which  we  do  not  share. 
And  while  the  bare  fact  remains  that  we  are 
not  at  all  sure  that  the  Pilgrims  landed  on 
this  rock,  and  we  are  entirely  sure  that  its 
present  location  and  setting  possess  no  ro- 
mantic allurement,  yet  bare  facts  are  not  the 
whole  truth,  and  even  when  correct  they  are 
often  the  superficial  and  not  the  fundamental 

1  It  is  hoped  that  by  the  summer  of  1921  a  beautiful 
and  dignified  portico  of  granite  will  be  raised  as  a  final 
and  permanent  memorial  over  the  rock,  which  will  be  moved 
for  the  last  time  —  lowered  to  as  near  its  original  bed  as 
possible.  This  work,  which  has  been  taken  in  charge  by  the 
National  Society  of  Colonial  Dames  of  America  will  be  exe- 
cuted by  McKim,  Mead  &  White.  The  General  Society  of 
Mayflower  Descendants  are  also  working  for  the  redemption 
of  the  first  Pilgrim  burial  place  on  Cole's  Hill.  The  Pilgrim 
Society  is  to  assume  the  perpetual  care  of  both  memorial 
and  lot. 


PLYMOUTH  191 

part  of  the  truth.  Those  hundreds  —  those 
thousands  —  of  earnest-eyed  men  and  women 
who  have  stood  beside  this  rock  with  tears  in 
their  eyes,  and  emotions  too  deep  for  words 
in  their  hearts,  "believing  where  they  cannot 
prove,"  have  not  only  interpreted  the  vital 
significance  of  the  place,  but,  by  their  very 
emotion,  have  sanctified  it. 

It  really  makes  little  difference  whether  the 
testimony  of  Thomas  Faunce  was  strictly  ac- 
curate or  not;  it  really  makes  little  difference 
that  the  Hammatt  Billings  canopy  is  indeed 
dreadful.  Plymouth  Rock  has  come  to  sym- 
bolize the  corner-stone  of  the  United  States  as 
a  nation,  and  symbols  are  the  most  beautiful 
and  the  most  enduring  expression  of  any  na- 
tional or  human  experience. 

It  is  estimated  that  over  one  hundred 
thousand  visitors  come  to  Plymouth  annually. 
They  all  go  to  see  the  Rock;  most  of  them 
clamber  up  to  the  quaint  Burial  Hill  and  read 
a  few  of  the  oldest  inscriptions;  they  glance  at 
the  National  Monument  to  the  forefathers, 
bearing  the  largest  granite  figure  in  the  world, 


192         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

and  they  take  a  turn  through  Pilgrim  Hall. 
But  there  is  one  place  they  often  forget  to  see, 
and  that  is  the  harbor  itself. 

We  began  our  tour  through  Plymouth 
through  the  eyes  of  a  Pilgrim  man  and  maid 
watching  the  departing  Mayflower.  It  was 
the  Mayflower,  battered  and  beaten,  her  sails 
blackened  and  mended,  her  leaks  hastily 
caulked,  which  was  the  first  vessel  to  sail  into 
Plymouth  Harbor  —  a  harbor  so  joyfully  de- 
scribed as  being  a  "most  hopeful  place"  with 
"innumerable  store  of  fowl  and  excellent  good 
...  in  fashion  like  a  sickel  or  fish  hook." 

All  that  first  dreadful  winter,  while  the  Pil- 
grims were  struggling  to  make  roofs  to  cover 
their  heads,  while,  with  weeping  hearts,  they 
buried  their  dead,  and  when,  according  to  the 
good  and  indestructible  instincts  of  life,  which 
persist  in  spite  of  every  calamity,  they  planted 
seed  for  the  coming  spring  —  all  this  while  the 
Mayflower  lay  at  anchor  in  the  harbor.  Every 
morning  they  could  see  her  there;  any  hour  of 
the  day  they  could  glance  out  at  her;  while 
they  slept  they  were  conscious  of  her  presence. 


PLYMOUTH  193 

And  just  so  long  as  she  was  there,  just  so  long 
could  they  see  a  tangible  connection  between 
themselves  and  the  life,  which,  although  al- 
ready strangely  far  away,  was,  nevertheless, 
the  nearest  and  the  dearest  existence  they  had 
known.  And  then  in  April,  the  familiar  vessel, 
whose  outlines  were  as  much  a  part  of  the  sea- 
scape as  the  Gurnet  or  the  bluffs  of  Manomet, 
vanished:  vanished  as  completely  as  if  she 
had  never  been.  The  water  which  parted  under 
her  departing  keel  flowed  together.  There  was 
no  sign  on  earth  or  sea  or  in  the  sky  of  that 
last  link  between  the  little  group  of  colonists 
and  their  home  land.  They  were  as  much  alone 
as  Enoch  Arden  on  his  desert  isle.  Can  we 
imagine  the  emptiness,  the  illimitable  loneli- 
ness of  that  bay?  One  small  shallop  down  by 
the  pier  —  that  was  the  only  visible  connec- 
tion between  themselves  and  England! 

I  do  not  believe  that  we  can  really  appre- 
ciate their  sense  of  complete  severance  — 
their  sense  of  utter  isolation.  And  I  do  not 
believe  that  we  can  appreciate  the  wild  thrill 
of  excitement,  the  sudden  gush  of  freshly 


194         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

established  connection  that  ran  through  the 
colony,  when,  seven  months  later  —  the  fol- 
lowing November  —  a  ship  sailed  into  the 
harbor.  It  was  the  Fortune  bringing  with  her 
news  and  letters  from  home  —  word  from  that 
other  world  —  and  bringing  also  thirty-five 
new  colonists,  among  them  William  Brewster's 
eldest  son  and  Robert  Cushman.  Probably  the 
greetings  were  so  joyful,  the  messages  so 
eagerly  sought,  the  flutter  of  welcome  so  great 
that  it  was  not  until  several  days  had  passed 
that  they  realized  that  the  chief  word  which 
Thomas  Weston  (the  London  merchant  who 
was  the  head  of  the  company  which  had 
financed  the  expedition)  had  sent  them  was 
one  of  reproof.  The  Mayflower  had  brought 
no  profitable  cargo  back  to  England,  he  com- 
plained, an  omission  which  was  "wonderful 
and  worthily  distasted."  While  he  admitted 
that  they  had  labored  under  adverse  circum- 
stances, he  unkindly  added  that  a  quarter  of 
the  time  they  had  spent  in  discoursing  and 
arguing  and  consulting  could  have  profitably 
been  spent  in  other  ways.  That  the  first  official 


PLYMOUTH  195 

word  from  home  should  be  one  of  such  cruel 
reprimand  struck  the  colonists  —  who  had  so 
wistfully  waited  for  a  cheering  message  — • 
very  hard.  Half  frozen,  half  starved,  sick,  de- 
pressed, they  had  been  forced  to  struggle  so 
desperately  to  maintain  even  a  foothold  on 
the  ladder  of  existence,  that  it  had  not  been 
humanly  possible  for  them  to  fulfill  their 
pledge  to  the  Company.  Bradford's  letter 
back  to  Weston  —  dignified,  touching  —  is 
sufficient  vindication.  When  the  Fortune  re- 
turned she  "was  laden  with  good  clapboards, 
as  full  as  she  could  stowe,  and  two  hogsheads 
of  beaver  and  other  skins,"  besides  sassafras  — 
a  cargo  valued  at  about  five  hundred  pounds. 
In  spite  of  the  fact  that  this  cargo  was  promptly 
stolen  by  a  French  cruiser  off  the  English 
coast,  it  nevertheless  marks  the  foundation  of 
the  fur  and  lumber  trade  in  New  England.  Al- 
though this  first  visitor  brought  with  her  a 
patent  of  their  lands  (a  document  still  pre- 
served in  Pilgrim  Hall,  with  the  signatures 
and  seals  of  the  Duke  of  Lenox,  the  Marquis 
of  Hamilton,  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  and  Sir 


196         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

Ferdinando  Gorges),  yet  to  us,  reading  history 
in  the  perspective  of  three  hundred  years,  the 
disagreeable  impression  of  Weston's  letter  out- 
weighs the  satisfaction  for  the  patent.  When 
the  Fortune  sailed  away  it  was  like  the  de- 
parture of  a  rich,  fault-finding  aunt,  who  sud- 
denly descends  upon  a  household  of  poor  re- 
lations, bringing  presents,  to  be  sure,  but  with 
such  cutting  disapproval  on  her  lips  that  it 
mars  the  entire  pleasure  of  her  visit. 

The  harbor  was  once  more  empty.  I  suppose 
that  in  time  the  Pilgrims  half  forgot,  half  for- 
gave, the  sting  of  Weston's  reproof.  Again 
they  gazed  out  and  waited  for  a  sail;  again 
England  seemed  very  far  away.  So,  doubtless, 
in  the  spring,  when  a  shallop  appeared  from  a 
fishing  vessel,  they  all  eagerly  hurried  down  to 
greet  it.  But  if  the  Fortune  had  been  like  a 
rich  and  disagreeable  aunt,  this  new  visitation 
was  like  an  influx  of  small,  unruly  cousins. 
And  such  hungry  cousins!  Weston  had  sent 
seven  men  to  stay  with  them  until  arrange- 
ments could  be  made  for  another  settlement. 
New  Englanders  are  often  criticized  for  their 


PLYMOUTH  197 

lack  of  hospitality,  and  in  this  first  historic 
case  of  unexpected  guests  the  larder  was  prac- 
tically bare.  Crops  were  sown,  to  be  sure,  but 
not  yet  green;  the  provisions  in  the  store- 
house were  gone;  it  was  not  the  season  for 
wild  fowl;  although  there  were  bass  in  the 
outer  harbor  and  cod  in  the  bay  there  was 
neither  tackle  nor  nets  to  take  them.  How- 
ever, the  seven  men  were  admitted,  and  given 
shellfish  like  the  rest  —  and  very  little  beside. 

At  this  point  the  Pilgrims  looked  with  less 
favorable  eyes  upon  newcomers  into  the  har- 
bor, and  when  shortly  after  two  ships  appeared 
bringing  sixty  more  men  from  Weston,  con- 
sternation reigned.  These  emigrants  were  sup- 
posed to  get  their  own  food  from  their  own  ves- 
sels and  merely  lodge  on  shore,  but  they  proved 
a  lawless  set  and  stole  so  much  green  corn  that 
it  seriously  reduced  the  next  year's  supply. 
After  six  weeks,  however,  these  uninvited 
guests  took  themselves  off  to  Wessagusset  (now 
Weymouth)  leaving  their  sick  behind,  and 
only  the  briefest  of  "thank  you's." 

The  next  caller  was  the  Plantation.    She 


198         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

anchored  only  long  enough  to  offer  some  sorely 
needed  provisions  at  such  extortionate  prices 
that  the  colonists  could  not  buy  them.  An- 
other slap  in  the  face! 

Obviously,  none  of  these  visitors  had  proved 
very  satisfactory.  It  had  been  entertaining 
under  difficulties,  and  if  the  entertainers  had 
hoped  for  the  "angels  unawares,"  they  had 
been  decidedly  disappointed.  Therefore  it  is 
easy  to  believe  that  they  took  fresh  courage 
and  sincere  delight  when,  in  July,  1623,  the 
Anne  and  the  Little  James  arrived  —  no  stran- 
gers, for  they  brought  with  them  additional 
stores,  and  best  of  all,  good  friends  and  close 
kinsfolk  from  the  church  at  Ley  den.  Yes,  the 
Pilgrims  were  delighted,  but,  alas,  tradition  has 
it  that  when  they  pressed  forward  in  glad 
greeting  to  their  old  acquaintances,  these  latter 
started  back,  nonplussed  —  aghast!  Like  Mr. 
Boughton  they  had  fondly  pictured  an  ideal 
rustic  community,  in  which  the  happy,  care- 
free colonists  reveled  in  all  the  beauty  of  pic- 
turesque and  snowy  collars  and  cuffs  in  Arden- 
like  freedom.  Instead  they  saw  a  row  of  rough 


PLYMOUTH  199 

log  cabins  and  a  group  of  work-worn,  shabby 
men  and  women,  men  and  women  whose  faces 
were  lined  with  exposure,  and  whose  backs 
were  bent  with  toil,  and  who,  for  their  most 
hospitable  feast,  had  only  a  bit  of  shellfish 
and  water  to  offer.  Many  of  the  newcomers 
promptly  burst  into  tears,  and  begged  to  re- 
turn to  England  immediately.  Poor  Pilgrims! 
Rebuffed  —  and  so  unflatteringly  —  with  each 
arriving  maritime  guest,  who  can  doubt  that 
there  was  born  in  them  at  that  moment  the 
constitutional  dislike  for  unexpected  company 
which  has  characterized  New  England  ever 
since? 

.  However,  in  a  comparatively  short  time  the 
colonists  who  had  been  brought  over  in  the 
Anne  and  the  Little  James  —  those  who 
stayed,  for  some  did  return  at  once  —  ad- 
justed themselves  to  the  new  life.  Many  mar- 
ried—  both  Myles  Standish  and  Governor 
Bradford  found  wives  among  them;  and  now 
the  Plymouth  Colony  may  be  said  to  have 
fairly  started. 

Just  as  a  trail  which  is  first  a  mere  thread 


200         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

leading  to  some  out-of-the-way  cabin  becomes 
a  path  and  then  a  road,  and  in  due  time  a  wide 
thoroughfare,  so  the  way  across  the  Atlantic 
from  Old  England  to  New  became  more  charted 

—  more  traveled.  At  first  there  was  only  one 
boat  and  one  net  for  fishing.  In  five  years 
there  was  a  fleet  of  fifty  fishing  vessels.  Ten 
years  later  we  have  note  of  ten  foreign  vessels 
in  the  harbor  in  a  single  week.  And  to-day,  if 
the  Pilgrim  man  and  maid  whom  we  joined  at 
the  beginning  of  our  reminiscences  could  gaze 
out  over  the  harbor,  they  would  see  it  as  full  of 
masts  as  a  cornfield  is  of  stalks.  Every  kind  of 
boat  finds  its  way  in  and  out;  and  not  only 
pleasure  craft:   Plymouth   Harbor  is   second 
only   to    Boston   among   the   Massachusetts 
ports  of  entry,  receiving  annual  foreign  im- 
ports valued  at  over  $7,000,000.  Into  the  har- 
bor, where  once  a  single  shallop  was  the  only 
visible  sign  of  man's  dominion  over  the  water, 
now  sail  great  vessels  from  Yucatan  and  the 
Philippines,  bringing  sisal  and  manila  for  the 
largest  cordage  company  in  the  whole  country 

—  a  company  with  an  employees'  list  of  two 


PLYMOUTH  201 

thousand  names,  and  an  annual  output  of 
$10,000,000.  Furthermore,  the  flats  in  the  har- 
bor are  planted  with  clams,  which  (through 
the  utilization  of  shells  for  poultry  feeding, 
and  by  means  of  canning  for  bouillon)  yield  a 
profit  of  from  five  hundred  to  eight  hundred 
dollars  an  acre. 

No,  our  Pilgrim  man  and  maid  would  not 
recognize,  in  this  Plymouth  of  factories  and 
industries,  the  place  where  once  stood  the  row 
of  log  cabins,  with  oiled-paper  windows.  And 
yet,  after  all,  it  is  not  the  prosperous  town 
of  to-day,  but  the  rude  settlement  of  yester- 
day, which  chiefly  lives  in  the  hearts  of  the 
American  people.  And  it  lives,  not  because  of 
its  economic  importance,  but  because  of  its 
unique  sentimental  value.  As  John  Fiske  so 
admirably  states:  "Historically  their  enter- 
prise [that  of  the  Pilgrims  at  Plymouth]  is  in- 
teresting not  so  much  for  what  it  achieved  as 
for  what  it  suggested.  Of  itself  the  Plymouth 
Colony  could  hardly  have  become  a  wealthy 
and  powerful  state.  Its  growth  was  extremely 
slow.  After  ten  years  its  numbers  were  but 


202         THE  OLD  COAST  ROAD 

three  hundred.  In  1643,  when  the  exodus 
had  come  to  an  end  and  the  New  England 
Confederacy  was  formed,  the  population  of 
Plymouth  was  but  three  thousand.  In  an  es- 
tablished community,  indeed,  such  a  rate  of 
increase  would  be  rapid,  but  was  not  sufficient 
to  raise  in  New  England  a  power  which  could 
overcome  Indians  and  Dutchmen  and  French- 
men and  assert  its  will  in  opposition  to  the 
Crown.  It  is  when  we  view  the  founding  of 
Plymouth  in  relation  to  what  came  after- 
ward, that  it  assumes  the  importance  which 
belongs  to  the  beginning  of  a  new  era." 

For  this  reason  the  permanent  position  of 
Plymouth  in  our  history  is  forever  assured. 
Old  age,  which  may  diminish  the  joys  of 
youth,  preserves  inviolate  memories  which 
nothing  can  destroy.  The  place  whose  quiet 
fame  is  made  is  surer  of  the  future  than  the  one 
which  is  on  the  brink  of  fabulous  glory.  It  is 
impossible  to  overestimate  the  significance  of 
this  spot. 

The  Old  Coast  Road  —  the  oldest  in  New 
England  —  began  here  and  pushed  its  tortuous 


PLYMOUTH  203 

way  up  to  Boston  along  the  route  we  have  so 
lightly  followed.  Inheritors  of  a  nation  which 
these  pioneers  strove  manfully,  worshipfully, 
to  found,  need  we  be  ashamed  of  deep  emotion 
as  we  stand  here,  on  this  shore,  where  they 
landed  three  hundred  years  ago? 


THE  END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


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